






























































































‘ 















Holy rood Palace. — Frontispiece. 








THE 


AFTERGLOW OF EUROPEAN 

TRAVEL 


BY 

ADELAIDE L. HARRINGTON 



BOSTON 

D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY 

32 FRANKLIN STREET 


4-H 

£241 


Copyright, 1882. 

D. Lothrop & Company. 


This volume is dedicated to those countrywomen whose sym- 
pathetic companionship in Italy and Switzerland will ever be 
recalled with fond remembrances; and to those at home whose 
absence z vas the chief regret of the tour . 


Note.— This book was originally intended to be privately printed. 
When at last I was induced to publish — it is so difficult to close 
one’s ears to the importunities of friends, even though sober judg- 
ment tells us they are as prone to be blind to faults as they are to 
magnify merit — it was with the understanding I should be spared 
destroying the continuity of our tour by a merciless pruning. More- 
over, were these descriptions any less fervid, they would not be true 
representations of what I saw, or of what I think, as they continu- 
ally rise before me in the Afterglow. 


CONTENTS 


Scotland 7 

Kenilworth 26 

Stratford-on-Avon 31 

Many Worlds in One 37 

Below the Sea ....*. > 40 

Walks in Cologne 32 

The Rhine 58 

Coblenz to Oberwesel 65 

Caub to Bingen 70 

The Rheinau 74 

Hours at Wiesbaden 81 

Heidelberg University 88 

Heidelberg Castle 94 

Southern Germany 101 

First Glimpses of Italy 113 

The Bride of the Sea.. 117 

The Rialto and the Ducal Palace 123 

Midsummer Studies in Florence 129 

Parthenopean Shores 140 


CONTENTS . 


Pompeii i 54 

The Capital of Capitals 163 

The Barberini Palace 169 

Two Capitols 173 

Catacombs of St. Calixtus 178 

The Colosseum 182 

St. Peter’s and the Vatican 187 

Along a Famous Sea 195 

little Paris . 202 

From Art to Nature 207 

The Swiss Washington 226 

Wayside Reminiscences 236 

Paris 258 

The Motherland 280 


The Afterglow of European Travel. 


SCOTLAND. 


N the evening of the 27th of June, 1879, the deck 



V_>/ of the Anchoria , of the Anchor line, was crowded 
with a large party in charge of Dr. Tourjee, of which my 
son and I were among the few who represented the Empire 


State. 


Just ten days after we had seen the shores of Long 
Island and the Neversink Highlands melt into the 
twilight mist, a heavy fog kindly lifted and revealed 
the Irish shore. Passing over the details of our experi- 
ence in passing up the Clyde, on the next day, the first 
interview with Custom House officers at Greenock, the 
visit to Glasgow, I will hasten on to the beautiful metrop- 
olis of Scotland, in the north of Mid-Lothian. 

Sitting here in the seclusion of my own home library, 
and taking a retrospective view of that, to us, memorable 
tour from New York to Pompeii, I do not know as I can 
recall any land which afforded me more unqualified enjoy- 
ment than that of which Edinburgh is the capital. A com- 
bination of circumstances combined to produce this result. 
It was the first earth we trod after a dreary, rainy voyage. 
It was a land rich in legend, history, and song, interwoven 
with my earliest thought of the Old World. It was the 
birthplace of men whose names were household words 
from childhood. 

Europe is so vast, so diversified, that, after having made 
the grand tour, enjoying Art in Italy, Nature in Switzer- 


7 


8 


SCOTLAND. 


land, Romance in Venice and on the Rhine, History- 
in Rome, and the unique experience of being brought 
face to face with a tangible antiquity, contemporaneous 
with Christ, at Pompeii and Herculaneum, it may be 
invidious to pronounce this fragmentary portion of Great 
Britain as of paramount interest to any other part of 
Europe. Nevertheless, the characteristics mentioned, 
joined to the American-like features of much of the 
scenery, and the sterling qualities of the inhabitants, are 
powerful attributes in making the recollection of Scot- 
land one of unqualified delight. 

As we entered Edinburgh, the impression that there 
were indeed three thousand miles of ocean between us 
and the brand-new cities of our own land, was perhaps as 
novel an emotion as was experienced in the entire trip. 
What we call antiquity is something so purely relative, 
that it is not easy to say what is really old. We call 
the historic rock at Plymouth, or the event with which it 
is associated, a reminder of very old times ; yet what an 
interregnum lies between that and the day when the 
Central Park obelisk was first placed on its site at 
Heliopolis. 

But when we looked on Edinburg Castle, and realized 
that there the pious Queen Margaret, grand-niece of 
Edward the Confessor, died in 1093, we felt that at 
last here was something really old, although so many 
hundred years younger than ruins we were soon among 
on the Rhine and in Italy. I was too much absorbed in 
my own observations to note the effect of this quick 
transition from a country so new as ours to one whose 
early history is too remote to be clear, upon the other 
members of our party, largely made up of clergymen, 
teachers, and business men. I do not think the reverence 
for antiquity is innate to the average American mind. 
We are so full of vitality, so bent upon making the 
most of the great present, that there is but a feeble 


EDINBURGH CASTLE. 


9 


disposition to recognize the claims of a historic past. 
Again, with us the mercantile spirit outranks all other; 
more than one churchyard besides that at the head of 
W all street, in the midst of the restless life of American 
cities, and which hold hallowed dust, are looked upon 
with envious eye by the real estate speculator, in whose 
vocabulary such a word as reverence or sentiment has 
never entered. 

Any thing more unlike the unrelieved level of New 
York, Philadelphia, and London, than the irregular 
surface of Edinburgh, could scarcely be imagined. For 
picturesque and romantic effects, no city, not even 
Genoa or Naples, can exceed it. The Castle dominates 
the city, the western terminus of the ridge running 
through the town of which Holyrood Palace is the 
eastern extremity. It is a perfect nest of misty legends 
and veritable curiosities. To the latter we should have 
been glad to devote a week of study, instead of the 
few hours the exigencies of excursion-laws allow us. 
From the Castle the basaltic rock falls away in a ragged 
incline very similar to the slopes reaching from the 
Hudson half-way up the perpendicular rocks of the 
Palisades. When King Edward I., of England, held the 
Castle, a sturdy band of Scotchmen resolved on retaking 
it ; a young patriot who had been accustomed to scale 
the heights, returning from visits to his inamorata , led 
thirty men up the rocky paths, who made such vigorous 
use of their battle-axes, that it was not long before they 
were in possession of the coveted garrison. 

Intervening between the main portion of the Castle 
and High street, is a wide esplanade. As we crossed it, a 
regiment of soldiers was being drilled. My son, perhaps 
too strongly entrenched in his opinion of the superior 
tactics of the military institute whose uniform he wore, 
pronounced the soldiers “an awkward squad,” an expres- 
sion, I trust, that will . not lead to any rupture of the 


10 


SCOTLAND. 


amicable relations existing between Her Majesty’s gov- 
ernment and our own. 

On the south side of this extensive pile, in a quarter 
occupied as a palace by Queen Mary, we visited a room 
where her son, James VI., "was born. Near by is another 
apartment where we had our first peep at insignias of 
government which it is not probable will ever be held 
in the archives of our republic. The Crown Jewels of 
Scotland are few in number, but compensate in historic 
interest. I looked in vain for the tiny crown which 
pressed the baby brow of the infant Mary Stuart ; but 
there was the one which six centuries ago Robert Bruce 
wore after the memorable Bannockburn. The jewels 
are enclosed within glass, and further protected by an 
iron cage which extends to the ceiling; so there was 
little danger of these royal emblems falling into our 
republican hands. The interior of the Castle we found 
to be an interminable series of corridors, low-vaulted 
ways, chambers and galleries, into which we should not 
have dared to venture alone: It ranks with the old 
hotel we occupied at Verona as among the most myste- 
rious interiors seen in our tour. 

The jDoints of view are so numerous, each with its dis- 
tinctive claim to a special beauty, that I shall omit that 
which we had from the side of Mons Meg, the odd three- 
hundred-year-old cannon on the ramparts. I give the 
preference to that from Calton Hill. Here your eye fol- 
lows the noble estuary of the Firth of Forth out to the 
commencement of the German Ocean ; the banks were 
clothed in the most beautiful green I ever saw, realizing 
my ideal of “ England’s fadeless green ” which we had 
yet to see; these banks fell away in a perspective of 
gentle undulations; far-reaching expanses of park and 
woodland went out to meet the Grampian Hills; over 
us was the stately isolation of Arthur’s Seat, and around 
us the wild loveliness of Salisbury Crags, where Salvator 


THE COW GATE. 


11 


Rosa might have found a home if denied the Abruzzi. 
These, and a score of other attractions, enchain the eye 
while gazing upon the outlying portions of the pictures, 
while for a foreground we have the Old and New City, 
with their endless variety of architecture, as composite 
as the English language, but — may we not add? — more 
harmonious. With a glass we see the May Lighthouse 
at the edge of the east horizon, while in the dim west 
rises the bold head of Ben Ledi, reminding us of the 
White Hills of New Hampshire. IJp and down the Firth 
sail numerous craft, at this distance dwarfed to toy ves- 
sels moving with the precision of mechanical figures in a 
model. Over all hangs a peculiar blue mist I have 
noticed in no other latitude ; as much a phenomenon as 
the prolonged day. 

In returning to our hotel, we drove through one of 
the streets upon the ridge. Looking down the precipitous 
side to the Cowgate, vistas of narrow lanes were rapidly 
passed, which afforded an opportunity to mark the extra- 
ordinary character of the dwellings on these steep slopes ; 
the fronts are often ten stories, while the rear may be 
only four or five. Most of these buildings are of great 
age, with quaint gables, small windows and basements 
bearing the same relation to the top story as the stem of 
the toadstool to the crown. The effect of these densely 
populated slopes at night, seen from below, is in the 
highest degree picturesque ; towers, spires, roofs and 
monuments are seen silhouetted against a luminous Nile 
green sky, while the lights in ten thousand windows rise 
in terraces to High street, like diamonds upon a mountain 
of ebony. 

The thrifty Scotch are not so devoted to the purely 
beautiful but that they have partially destroyed the 
natural charm of Salisbury Crags by treating it as a 
common quarry. The original condition of this district 
must have been far more beautiful than now, for it was 


12 


SCOTLAND. 


then covered with fine timber growth ; so plentiful was 
this, that every man removing it was allowed the privilege 
of extending the upper stories of his house over the 
street. The summit is about six hundred feet above the 
sea, and admirably commands the older portion of the 
city, showing with effect the sharp rise of High street 
from the vicinity of Scott’s Monument to the Castle. 

Edinburgh claims the title of a Modern Athens on 
topographical as well as scholastic grounds. Nature 
seems to have designed the Castle site for an Acropolis. 
The Nationnl Monument intended as a memorial to the 
Scotchmen who fell in the land and sea fights consequent 
upon the French revolution, was commenced as a literal 
restoration of the Parthenon at Athens; but it appears to 
have fallen into that languishing state which often befalls 
the work upon our own national memorial at Washington. 
This work, which is a little north of the Nelson Monu- 
ment, was conceived in a grand spirit; the twelve pillars 
are colossal, each costing five thousand dollars. Burns 
and other famous sons of Scotland are honored with 
appropriate statues and monuments in the Metropolis, 
but all inferior in beauty and grandeur to that which 
perpetuates the memory of the man of all others who 
needed such a memorial the least ; for is not all Scotland 
a living, breathing monument of the great Wizard of the 
North, who seized the dry bones of history and antiquity 
and gave them vitality ? 

The site is one eligible for the purpose, and which was 
without doubt carefully chosen by the architect with 
reference to striking views of the work from various 
points. The style is in the extreme of the florid Gothic; 
in fact, every architectural device consistent with a single 
order is exhausted, both within and without. The pho- 
tographs of it are so common that there is no need of 
a detailed description. The architect, George M. Kemp, 
like our late lamented President, was a man who rose 


KING GEORGE IV I S BRIDGE. 


13 


from humble life : through his enthusiastic study of 
those ideals in stone, Roslyn Chapel and Melrose Abbey, 
he advanced from the ranks of a common artisan to be 
the designer of one of the most beautiful monuments in 
the world, and within twenty feet of the height of the 
shaft at Bunker Hill. It almost defies criticism ; and if 
disembodied spirits are allowed to return, I can fancy 
that of Sir Walter animating the effigy of himself by 
the side of his dog Maida, and feasting his beauty-loving 
eye upon the tribute of his countrymen. When will the 
merchant-princes of New York do as much in Central 
Park in memory of Washington Irving? 

Edinburgh is full of Scott’s personality. The house in 
which he was born is shown on the west side of George’s 
Square, the rear windows looking out upon the Meadow 
Walk, where he rolled and tumbled in boyish glee. On 
every side are haunts where the germs of his transcendent 
genius were first developed. How inimitably have been 
described his juvenile rambles at Sandyknowe and Smail- 
home, where the young ewe-milkers pranced over the 
crags like wild colts, with the embryo novelist on their 
backs! Among the most touching of the souvenirs of 
him at this period, is a verse in a characteristic school- 
boy’s hand, endorsed by his mother’s words, “ My W alter’s 
first lines.” There is no library in the world that could 
contain the works written by the author of that verse. 
Not a workday in the year but that some Edinburgh 
printing-press is throwing off something relating to Sir 
Walter Scott; truly is this the land of Scott and Burns. 

In 1822, George IV. visited Scotland, of which event 
there are several memorials in the Capital, among others 
King George IV.’s Bridge, a much nobler work than 
the man for whom it is named (England has had the 
last of that kind of Kings; recollect it, Albert Edward). 
It rests upon enormous high arches, below which is a 
portion of the city itself. The residents along the lines of 


14 


SCOTLAND. 


the New York Elevated Railway complain of the passen- 
gers looking into their kitchens and parlors ; hut here on 
King George IV.’s Bridge, you look down the chimneys, 
and peep into the attics. After the forests are all levelled, 
where shall we flee for a tolerable privacy ? 

As our carriage halted a moment near St. Giles Church, 
at that point which permits a glimpse of the bustle and 
life of High street, a genuine piper in the now somewhat 
rare Highland dress, was blowing his pipes in the asthmatic 
manner which had distressed us now and then the other 
side of the Atlantic. Of all noise-producing implements, 
the American accordeon, the Scotch bagpipes, and the 
Alp-horn, I class as those most calculated to reconcile 
one to a partial deafness. Victoria is said to permit a 
piper to blow airs of Scotland every morning beneath her 
windows at Balmoral, a degree of queenly forbearance I 
believe to be unprecedented. It was something of a 
coincidence that this piper should appear just at this 
particular quarter. I would rather write of the Irish and 
Welsh harp, but it is decreed that I should tell of the 
legend which declares that there is a subterranean passage 
all the way from Holyrood to the Castle, which a bold 
piper ventured one day to explore, playing a triumphal 
air as he entered the upper end. A curious crowd followed 
this Highland Orpheus, guided by the harmonious (?) 
strains that floated back to them in the dreary vault; 
when the piper reached the point nearest St. Giles, the 
sounds suddenly ceased, and were never heard more; 
and of the bold 2>iper there is not anything further known 
to this day. 

But the legend that most caught my fancy in the 
“Auld Lang Syne,” was that of the two Scotch sisters 
who occupied one apartment as though thick walls divided 
them. A chalk-line was drawn through the centre of the 
room over which neither must cross, nor could a word be 
exchanged between those two of the nearest kin. Picture 


JOHN KNOX. 


15 


those maidens side by side before the big open fire-place 
on a winter’s night, each caressing her favorite black cat ! 
The popular belief is that this enmity grew out of a con- 
troversy upon some question of church discipline, in 
w T hich both forgot one of the most divine of injunctions. 
How many churches, how many families and neighbors, 
are living day after day by the side of the chalk-line ? 
Can they afford it ? 

More than one in the long line of carriages that drove 
out to the house of John Knox, facing the Canongate, 
pi ofessed the faith — with a little more conservatism — he 
so rigidly observed. Our reception, notwithstanding, 
was an exceedingly inhospitable one; the rain wns pouring 
in torrents, and we found admission to be impossible, and 
had to content ourselves with a view from our carriages 
of the exterior, a quaint old home where he lived from 
1559 to his death in 1572. Over one of the odd windows 
is a figure of Knox in the act of preaching, at that 
moment receiving such a drenching as we hope the 
original was never visited with. 

It is a long way, to be sure, from John Knox to David 
Hume ; but there in St. David street you may see his 
house. After he became fashionable, when his pen yielded 
him five thousand a year, he moved hither, a quarter then 
not built up. The street was already dedicated to St. 
David, but not as yet designated by the usual sign. 
One morning his zealous housekeeper, who was aware 
of the hostility of the more rigid of the Edinburghers to 
her master’s skepticism, Avas astounded at seeing “St. 
David Street ” painted on the corner of the house, and 
at once concluded that it was a meditated reflection 
on his heterodoxy. With great haste she ran into her 
master’s study with a bitter complaint of the outrage. 
“Tut, tut,” said Hume, when he comprehended the 
matter ; “ never mind ; many a better man than I has 
been called a saint.” 


16 


SCOTLAND. 


We will leave it to the reader’s imagination to conceive 
the effect produced on the pedestrians by two hundred 
Americans, of both sexes, of all ages, and representing 
nearly every State of the Union, whirling over the streets 
of the metropolis of the “North Countrie.” We attracted* 
less notice here, however, than in Glasgow, where the 
same amount of staring was bestowed upon us as the 
pilgrims from Ohio, Illinois, and Wyoming received at 
the Philadelphia Exposition. 

On, on, we ride, utilizing every moment of our stay; 
past homes of opulence ; now peeping down the crooked 
narrow alleys of St. Mary’s Wynd and Deep Wynd, 
from which rise the abodes of the wretchedly poor, ten 
and twelve stories in height, the windows often stuffed 
with rags, with here and there a flower-pot, or old pitcher 
with a blossom, indicating the struggle of some poor soul, 
for higher things. There is not the miserable squalor 
you see in the Ghetto at Frankfort, or in the low quarters 
of Naples, but there is poverty in Edinburgh beyond 
what we had thought possible. 

In contrast to these scenes is the beautiful suburb of 
Newington, about a mile from the base of Salisbury 
Crags ; the pretty, often elegant houses stand back from 
the street, with handsome yards enclosed by iron railings 
and adorned with vases, all indicating a quiet and refined 
taste. 

- Not far from here we were surprised to come upon a 
device which did not repeat itself even in the most Cath- 
olic countries of the Continent ; this was a double cross 
on Torn Church. We did not enter, although it is a 
spot of no common interest. Who do you think was 
married here? You have sung her sweet name an hun- 
dred times, for Annie Laurie was a bona fide maid, and 
at the altar of Torn Church gave her hand to the Laird 
of Craigdarroche, forgetting the poor soldier dying in 
Flanders to whom she had given “her promise true,” 


ARTHUR'S SEAT. 


17 


and who for her sake was willing to “ lay me down and 
dee.” 

But I am warned by these increasing pages of manu- 
script that if I continue to ramble around this delightful 
old city, the company of my readers is by no means 
assured. So, if you will go back to Arthur’s Seat and 
Salisbury Crags, we will wind up another day of sight- 
seeing. Of course there is the Castle again. You can no 
more escape it than the Boston or Washington domes. 
Head all the descriptions of the varied views of Edin- 
burgh — which, by the way, is Edinboro’ with the natives, 
they never having taken kindly to the Teutonic Edwin's 
Burgli — you can find, and realize how numerous and 
beautiful they are. 

Now we are here, let the poet speak for us : 

“ Say, stranger, what clime of the South hast thou seen 
So meet for a poet — a painter — a queen ! 

But the curtain of twilight o’ershadows the shore, 

And deepens the tint on the blue Lammermoor ; 

The tints on Corstorphine have paled in their fire, 

But sunset still lingers with gold on its spire ; 

The Roseberry forests are hooded in grey, 

And Night, like his heir, treads impatient on Day — 

And now, gentle stranger, if such be thy mood, 

Go welcome the moonlight in sweet Holy-Rood ! ” 

Yes, poet unknown, gladly would we “welcome the 
moonlight in sweet Holy-Rood ; ” but here on the very 
threshold of our tour the exhaustion attendant upon 
rapid sight-seeing is already making sad inroad upon 
sentiment and enthusiasm, and one and all crave some- 
thing more substantial at the end of this summer day 
than moonshine. An hour later we are all seated at 
long lines of tables, discussing a Scotch supper that 
would, in profusion and variety, have done credit to the 
traditional “ tavern days ” of New England ; there were 
hot and cold meats, fish, not forgetting Scotch herring, 
eggs, ham, pastry, and a species of marmalade — my 


18 


SCOTLAND. 


utmost skill in kitchen accomplishments would not per- 
mit me to name the articles of which it was composed. 

Our next objective point is Holyrood, a heavy, some- 
what plain stone palace, a quadrangle with circular 
towers, often likened to an old-fashioned pepper-box, at 
each corner. The present surroundings of Holyrood are 
in no degree regal; the fumes from neighboring gas- 
works and distilleries penetrate to the very windows 
where once leaned the most beautiful, the most unfortu- 
nate, of women and queens. With its bold background 
of crag and hill, the Palace has a romantic aspect in 
harmony with the historic deeds with which it is so 
tragically linked. What a procession was that I men- 
tally reviewed as I stood before the main portal of this 
structure, to which I had been an imaginary visitor long 
years before my literal eyes beheld it. But of all that 
train none stand out in such clear relief as the “ Queen of 
Tears,” 

“ the beauteous Queen, 

Upon whose heart, like canker in the leaf, 

The worm of many sorrows revelled.” 

When, a few days later, I stood in Westminster Abbey 
by the side of the two superb mausoleums, so much alike 
in general design, which cover the handful of dust that 
once was Mary Stuart and Queen Elizabeth, I thought 
how little the emotion elicited at the sight of the recum- 
bent figure of the proud Tudor, how few educated women 
but would look with moistened eye upon the silent effigy 
of her rival. 

The picture gallery first attracts our attention as we 
enter, a noble apartment with a long line of portraits of 
Scottish kings of most ignoble aspect, painted by one do 
Witt of Flanders, who, it is said, was never paid ; judging 
from the execution, they were painted by contract. This 
was the first picture gallery in Europe we had entered; 
the conclusion was that the Louvre and Vatican were yet 


MAR Y STUAR V S BED. 


19 


a great way off. They brought to mind a story I do not 
recollect to have seen in print, of a rural artist who 
painted a score of portraits of his neighbors in one day 
and placed them along the garden fence to dry, carefully 
affixing the name of each original for identification. 

Queen Victoria has a suite of rooms in the palace, which 
she occupies on her way to and from Balmoral, and which 
she had visited a short time prior to sending her late mes- 
sage of condolence to Mrs. Garfield. For these rooms we 
cared little, and hurried on to enter those which are per- 
vaded with the almost tangible presence of Mary Stuart. 
Her reception-room is first shown, with carved walls and 
panelled ceiling containing armorial devices and initials, 
but I could not find the French lilies which ought also to 
have been there. The stately bed in this room, hung with 
embossed velvet, had upon it an embroidered pillow; in 
this bed Charles I. had slept ; and the Pretender, before 
fatal Culloden, also had occupied it. Mary’s sleeping 
chamber was next entered ; on the west side is the bed, 
with faded hangings and tassel so worn by time that a 
tolerable wind would reduce them to threads. The crim- 
son velvet counterpane is so worn that there are spots 
larger than one’s hand through which you may see the 
linen beneath; a specimen of her needlework, just as her 
fair fingers left it, is shown, very faded, but better pre- 
served. From what we see in this room we can form an 
idea how the relics at Mt. Vernon will look two centuries 
hence, when they have attained the present age of those at 
Holyrood. Cold must be the heart that does not feel a 
thrill when standing over the blood stains of Rizzio on the 
stairs where he fell, pierced with fifty-six dagger 
thrusts. At first we were as skeptical as many others re- 
garding these stains ; yet it is not altogether impossible. 
There is a seat in the old Tenant Church near the battle- 
field at Monmouth, New Jersey, on which a dying soldier 
was laid, the soft pine of which absorbed so much of his 


20 


SCOTLAND. 


blood, that no effort, it is said, short of destroying the 
seat could remove. 

I know not how to account for the stoicism of many of 
our party when viewing these vital memorials of the most 
sad and interesting epochs of history, unless they have 
descended from the original Indian settlers of our land. I 
verily believe that the hands of a majority of the Yankee 
housekeepers who visit these chambers, are aching to fling 
open the casements, and have “a good cleaning up.” 
Where the old tapestries, the bed-hangings, and the blood 
stains would be after their shakings and scourings, it is 
not easy to say. 

Holyrood Abbey is a part of the Palace, and a ruin of 
great interest and beauty. A portion of the walls, built in 
1129, are yet intact, and two windows in the roofless 
chancel, through their elegant tracery, give a lovely 
glimpse of the blue sky beyond. Some broken slabs mark 
the spot where once stood the altar ; through the inter- 
stices blades of green grass are peeping out, on the very 
spot where Mary, Queen of Scots, gave her hand to the 
handsome but worthless Darnley. 

Before we leave Holyrood we are taken to the centre of 
the square to view the fountain built by the late Prince 
Consort : it is a beautiful work, ornate in curious carvings ; 
but there was not much comfort in viewing the waters of 
a fountain, however beautiful, when the heavens were 
pouring down torrents which seemed to threaten a second 
deluge. Jupiter Pluvius, so far, lias certainly had us in his 
keeping; we landed in a rain, sailed up the Clyde in a 
rain, had been caught in divers showers in various parts of 
Edinburgh. When we were told at Callander that the 
annual rain-fall in that district was sixty-six inches, we 
had no reason to doubt the statement, for it appeared as if 
half that depth had fallen since our feet had touched 
Scottish soil. Fortunately, the morning of July 10th, set 
apart for a pilgrimage to Melrose Abbey, dawned bright 


MELROSE ABBEY. 


21 


and clear, and after a ride of thirty-seven miles, we 
reached this famed spot, somewhat disappointed to find it 
in close contact with a rather seedy suburb of the town of 
Melrose. The town, on a smaller scale, repeats the pictur- 
esque combination of the antique and modern seen at 
Edinburgh ; on some houses are seen stones bearing the 
letters I. H. S., doubtless pillaged from the Abbey — 
strange relics in this Presbyterian land. Next to Holy- 
rood Abbey, this was the first grand ruin we had seen, 
and, of course, our admiration was correspondingly in- 
tense. No words can describe its beauty— the delicacy 
and elegance of the architecture, the fidelity to nature of 
the infinite variety of sculptured foliage and flowers of the 
interior. What wonderful stone is this, to lend itself so 
readily to the chisel, yet resist the elements ! A twisted 
garland of blossoms and leaves over a door leading to one 
of the cloisters, stands out in such relief that I thought it 
could be removed as easily as we take down our church 
decorations after Christmas. To stand in the nave, the 
only roof of which is the blue vault of heaven, and look 
up to the east window, the most idyllic in the world, is a 
memory for life. If Sir Walter did not come here by 
moonlight, as some claim, he should never be forgiven. 
You recollect his exquisite lines in “ The Lay of the Last 
Minstrel : ” 

“ The moon on the east oriel shone 
Through slender shafts of shapely stone.” 

But here we catch the poet tripping, for the east window 
is in no sense an oriel. The rest of the picture is a pho- 
tograph : 

“ Thou wouldst have thought some fairy’s hand 
’Twixt poplar straight the osier wand 
In many a freakish knot had twined ; 

Then framed a spell, when the work was done, 

And changed the willow wreaths to stone.” 

The Abbey is a perfect mine to the antiquary. Sir 


22 


SCOTLAND. 


Walter said of it, in this respect, “It is as rich as a Still- 
ton cheese, and, like that, the mouldier the better.” After 
you get beyond the mean dwellings near the ruins, you 
emerge into a beautiful pastoral plain, with the gentle 
Tweed winding its way through banks rich in lilacs and 
laurel. 

A brief ride brings us to Abbotsford, the “romance in 
lime and stone” the great novelist built for his home. 
The spot is not strikingly beautiful, but sylvan and pleas- 
ing. When Sir Walter purchased the estate, a common 
farm-house stood on the site, known as Cartley-Hole. The 
mansion, as is well-known, is a mosaic made up of “ bits ” 
collected from nearly all the historic buildings and locali- 
ties of Scotland : over one entrance we saw a lintel taken 
from the old Tolbooth at Edinburgh, with this inscription : 

“ The Lord of armies is my Protector; 

Blessit ar thav that trust in the Lord, 1575.” 

The interior we found a perfect museum of curiosities 
of exceeding interest, which I shall make no attempt to 
enumerate. None were viewed ivith more earnestness 
than the cross Mary Stuart wore at her execution. It is 
of silver, inlaid with pearl. The library is a splendid 
room, where we should have been glad to linger. Upon 
a table in the spacious dining-room there was a large 
punch-bowl full of dried rose-leaves, of which I was pre- 
sented with a handful. A friend has since sent me leaves 
from the grave of Irving, in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. 
I intend forming them into a wreath, not only as a sou- 
venir, but as emblematic of the delightful harmony of 
these gifted ones, when Irving and Scott wandered here 
over the fields, by the side of the Tweed and Gala water. 
What must it have been to sit at the feet of Scott, and 
hear from his own lips, as Irving did, the legend, lore and 
rhyme of which his mind was such a rich deposit! flow 
his love of quaint humor revelled in such stories as that 


KATRINE ANI) LOMOND. 


23 


of the old fellow who, after sheep-shearing, used to go up 
to Edinburgh to attend to his lawsuits ; at the inns where 
he stopped on the way, he insisted upon paying double 
for each meal and lodging, giving as a reason that he 
knew the lawyers would get all his money, and, he wanted 
to make sure of accommodations on his return home. 

The next day we took a special train for Callander, 
bound for Loch Katrine and the Trosachs. The former 
is a lovely lake, sleeping quietly below lofty cliffs partially 
covered with beech, pine and oak trees; it looked very 
blue, clear and cold. From this lake the city of Glasgow 
is supplied. We crossed the Loch in a tiny steamboat to 
the other end, where carriages were awaiting to transport 
us through the Trosachs. These were odd vehicles made 
expressly for the rough road over the rocks, something 
like a square box, with four seats, besides that of the 
driver, holding sixteen persons, and drawn by two, some- 
times four, strong and handsome horses. The ride was 
in the highest degree enjoyable, although the scenery of 
this mountain- vale is less striking than that of the White 
Mountain Notch. It received the name Trosachs from 
the bristling appearance of the rocks and shrubbery which 
characterizes this lower range of the Highlands. 

After dining at the Trosachs Hotel, we returned to 
Loch Katrine, sailed past Ellen’s Isle, and on leaving the 
boat, took carriages for the w Queen of the Scottish Lakes,” 
Loch Lomond. Looking back, we could see the summit 
of Benevue, and near it, Benawn, the sentinels that nature 
has placed to stand guard at the entrance of the defile 
leading to Loch Katrine 

Lomond is indeed a beautiful sheet of water, twenty- 
three miles in length, varying from a half mile to five 
miles in width, suggesting features of the Swiss lakes and 
the Hudson Highlands; at one end it is gemmed with 
thirty little islands, of similar character to those of the 
Thousand Isles. The entire region is the most famed in 


24 


SCOTLAND . 


Scotland, but the world never awoke to its beauty until 
Scott’s poem of “ The lady of the Lake ” made it a Mecca 
for all lovers of the picturesque. Where may we look for 
an American Ilomer to give immortality to the beauties 
and wonders of our Yellowstone and Yosemite? 

It was past noon on July 11th when we took train 
from Callander for Stirling, and we were due in Edin- 
burgh at half-past seven, a trip of fifty miles, and Stirling 
Castle to visit in six hours. The ride was of much 
interest, the country less sterile than we had expected, the 
late spring and excessive moisture imparting to the fields 
of oats and other grains a delightful green. We had no 
time to devote to the old town of Stirling, and our inspec- 
tion of the Castle was of the most cursory character. It 
stands upon a lofty, almost impregnable bluff in the midst 
of a spacious plain. What stirring scenes have taken 
place on the fields before us ! A small boy was our guide, 
quite a juvenile duplicate of Irving’s cicerone, Johnny 
Bower, in his loquacity and zeal. lie took us to the room 
where James II. stabbed the Earl of Douglas; an adja- 
cent closet had a window with the Douglas arms ; also a 
door opening into an underground passage, which we ex- 
plored for a considerable way, taking care that our little 
guide was kept within a reassuring distance. An inter- 
esting collection of relics is in the Douglas room the 

communion table used in the Castle by John Knox, and 
the Knox pulpit. The view from the ramparts recalled 
many portions of the Mohawk Valley, although bolder. 
This part of the fortress was built by James V.; the 
fa§ade is adorned with carved figures, a singular mixture 
of historical and allegorical characters, much in the 
manner seen in the Heidelberg Castle quadrangle, but in 
less correct style. The impression left on my mind by 
these figures was very unpleasant regarding the taste of 
the father of Mary Stuart. Almost under the shadow of 
the Castle wall, near the garden, an amateur Scotch 


Afterglow in the Highlands, near the Trosachs. 












AMATEUR WARRIORS. 


25 


warrior of five or six summers, in bare feet and uncovered 
bead, was drilling a little regiment of Stirling lads and 
lasses, to the lively rubadub-dub produced on a tin pan 
doing service as a drum; the innate imitative instinct in 
children doubtless leads to a similar daily display after 
the drill of the soldiers stationed at the Castle. 

In leaving Scotland, I must express my regret for not 
having more opportunity for better acquaintance with its 
people, of whose honesty and intelligence a lively remem- 
brance is retained by our entire party. 


KENILWORTH. 


K ENILWORTH has had some remarkable visita- 
tions, but it may be doubted if so large a party of 
Americans ever before marched upon it as that which 
landed here on the morning of July 12th, 1879, just as 
the kitchen chimneys began to send out their smoke of 
the breakfast fire. 

Some idea may be had of the celerity of sight-seeing 
in this last quarter of tl\e nineteenth century, when it is 
stated that in the previous thirty-six hours we had sailed 
over Lochs Katrine and Lomond, rode through the Tros- 
achs, visited Abbotsford and Stirling, and taken our 
farewell of Edinburgh. But even this will be surpassed 
when a tramway is laid through the Louvre and Vatican, 
where a less number of minutes are devoted to works 
than years the artists took for their completion. A special 
train leaving Edinburgh at half-past eight in the evening, 
consisting of eighteen saloon carriages and drawn by two 
engines, brought us within sight of the village of Kenil- 
worth at six next morning. The Queen and Castle Hotel 
was not equal to such a crowd, and our breakfast was 
provided in a sort of rustic bower, which all those roman- 
tically inclined thought quite in harmony with the asso- 
ciations of the neighboring ruins. Romance, however, 
was not allowed to interfere with a vigorous discussion 
of the merits of our first English breakfast, for which 
our night-ride from Scotland had left us in condition to 
heartily enjoy. 

It was fitting that we should approach this spot from 
26 


TIIE STARS AND STRIPES . 


27 


the “North Countrie,” the home and haunts of the great 
wizard who has made Kenilworth the seat of his most 
bewitching romance. It is difficult to say what part of 
Great Britain is not classic ground to the American ; but 
if there is one district more than another that is para- 
mount, it is Warwickshire — the “Heart of England” — 
every rood of which is identified with events and per- 
sonages interwoven with our most cherished traditions, 
and to enumerate which would be to swell these lines 
into a volume. 

In our haste to “-do ” Kenilworth and Stratford, how 
few of us stop to think that the very banner of our Re- 
public had its origin here! When Lawrence Washington 
had his home in Warwickshire, in the reign of Henry 
VII., the family devices were emblazoned on the windows 
of Seekington Church — the red-striped bars, the star- 
like mullets, and the spread eagle of the crest. These 
heraldic emblems have all disappeared from Seekington 
Church, but are restored in the Stars and Stripes, which 
typify the nation founded by the descendant of the Mayor 
of Northampton, and which England has so lately draped 
in sable, when her queen laid the wreath of honor on the 
bier of our beloved dead. 

There is little in Kenilworth village to keep us: a 
long wide street, with cross lanes, old-fashioned houses, 
whose windows and doors were filled with healthy-looking 
women and round-faced children, some of the latter at 
this early hour appearing in that incomplete juvenile 
toilet chronicled in the old nursery ballad — “one stocking 
off and one stocking on.” Over the well-shaded roofs 
is seen the tall chimney of a tannery or brewery which 
many a novice takes for CsBsar’s Tower of the ruins which 
is situated on a gentle swell west of the village. In one 
way and another, the inhabitants are said to receive ten 
thousand pounds annually from tourists, the larger part 
of which may be set down to the credit of Sir Walter 


28 


KENIL WORTH. 


Scott, for to Iris pen the modern celebrity of the Trosachs, 
Lochs Katrine and Lomond, and Kenilworth is due. In- 
deed, so far as the latter is concerned, the million ignore 
any history prior to the Elizabethan era, although Kenil- 
worth Castle was three centuries old before Queen Eliza- 
beth saw it, and had withstood sieges in the bow-and- 
arrow days before cannon were invented. Nine tourists 
will recall here the imaginary woes of Amy Robsart — 
who had been dead fifteen years before Dudley enter- 
tained Elizabeth in 1575 — to one who will name a single 
exploit on and around these walls in the stirring days 
of Henry III. and Edward I. The same at Stratford, 
which had its local lions before Skakespeare, but who is 
now the Alpha and Omega. Delightful as Scott’s “ Ken- 
ilworth ” is, and must ever be, one cannot be blind to the 
great license in some historic details. Young Raleigh is 
made to quote the line in “ Midsummer Night’s Dream,” 
so flattering to Elizabeth — 


“Fair vestal, enthroned of the West,” 

when Shakespeare was a barefooted boy of eleven, at least 
twenty-five years before he could have written the play. 
With much more propriety he might have brought the 
boy Shakespeare into the presence of Elizabeth during 
the Kenilworth festivities; and with his peerless pen 
what a scene would have resulted ! Preparations for this 
event had been in progress for months; all Warwickshire 
was as much stirred by it as the United States were in 
regard to the Philadelphia Exposition. A less susceptible 
lad than Will Shakespeare, living within four hours’ 
walk of Kenilworth, could scarcely, escape the contagious 
excitement. 

As a ruin, Kenilworth is eminently satisfactory. 

Without any of the ornate architecture and sculpture 
which so greatly beautify Heidelberg Castle, Kenilworth 


CAESAR’S TOWER, 


29 


nevertheless fills the eyes from the massive character of its 
walls, often sixteen feet thick; the irregular outline of its 
crumbling, ivied towers ; its fine studies of light and shade, 
when the morning sun falls upon the east projections in 
liquid gold, while recesses lie in sombre shadow, the 
entire ruin robed in a tissue of romance moving the heart 
of every sentient being. There was some excuse for our 
enthusiasm. Melrose and Holyrood abbeys had only in- 
creased our appetite for ruins by “ what it fed upon,” and 
we were in happy ignorance of the surfeit of this kind of 
diet in store for us on the Rhine, from Cologne to 
Mayence. 

There are three periods distinctly traced in the ruins — 
the Norman, in Caesar’s Tower; the reign of Edward I., 
in the grand banquet hall built by John o’ Gaunt, and the 
Elizabethan, in the Leicester buildings, added by the 
favorite earl in 1571, and which, owing to the poorer 
quality of the stone, are the most destroyed. Standing 
within the court, looking up to the blue sky, the eye tak- 
ing in the whole range of the lofty towers, as perpendicular 
as when the mason left them, the indications of each story 
can be traced in the sockets where the beams rested, and 
by the fire-places over which stray branches of ivy weave 
a vernal screen. The Kenilworth ivy is extraordinary in 
its luxuriance beyond what I have seen elsewhere. The 
trunk of that on Caesar’s Tower is over two feet in circum- 
ference. The ruin would lose more than half its beauty 
divested of this parasitic growth. 

One of the best views at the Castle is that from the 
nobly proportioned windows of the Banquet Hall, of 
which Scott has given us one of his historical cartoons as 
it appeared when the maiden queen sat here enthroned, 
surrounded by England’s beauty and chivalry. But deso- 
late enough now is this hall, which was then the scene of 
such regal splendor; the night bat darts in and out at its 
pleasure, and no steps echo between the gigantic walls but 


30 


KENIL WORTH. 


those of Volneys like us who wander over the broken 
stones to meditate upon the past, and in imagination 
restore the pile to its ancient glory. From these windows 
you look out upon the area of seven acres, which formerly 
was enclosed within the walls of the castle; beyond, a 
wide expanse of meadow, upland and gentle heights, 
crowned with wood, fill the eye with a pastoral beauty 
beyond what we had ever seen. Although the middle of 
July, the grass was as fresh as that of the finest American 
meadows in May, giving us the first realization of “ Eng- 
land’s fadeless green,” to which the famous Tapis Vert at 
Versailles can bear no comparison. As soon as the eye 
passes beyond that point where the blades of grass are 
distinct, the whole earth is literally a carpet of green 
velvet, with a glow soft as that of porcelain. The cattle 
we saw scattered over the landscape were those round, 
sleek, bovine matrons the painters love, often in picturesque 
assemblies that would not require the least change of 
grouping for the most effective transfer to the canvas; 
when we pass them they look at us with their dreamy 
eyes as if intimating that in consideration of their good 
master, the heir of the Earl of Clarendon, the present 
owner of Kenilworth Castle, we have the right of way. 
There was such a spirit of idyllic repose over the spot 
that we were sorely tempted to linger beyond the allotted 
time, which did not allow us to visit the Church of St. 
Nicholas, whose spire we could see rising over a clump of 
foliage near the old gateway of the ruined abbey founded 
by Geoffrey de Clinton nearly seven centuries ago. It 
was difficult to realize that London with its “madding 
crowd ” was but a hundred miles away from these quiet 
scenes, where the hum of bees, the call of the cowboy and 
the singing of summer birds are the only evidences of 
animate nature. 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 


A LTHOUGH but about twelve miles from Kenilworth 
■ to Stratford by the cross-country roads I have 
supposed the boy Shakespeare to have taken, it took us 
two hours to reach it by rail, via Leamington and War- 
wick. The ride was one not soon to be forgotten, and 
there are few things I desire more than to journey 
through this garden land in an open carriage, halting at 
every thatched cottage, every ivy-netted church, and 
every stately hall of which we catch the most tantalizing 
glimpses beyond far-reaching parks and through avenues 
of stately oaks. The day was faultless ; the wood-crowned 
heights of the uplands made an horizon bounding the 
fertile expanse, crossed by paths, hedges and roads 
numerous as the articulations upon a leaf. Tiny streams 
emptying into the Learn and Avon flash their curling 
silver threads, often hid for a moment by stone bridges of 
a single arch of greenish stone, with their patches of 
lindens adding to the combinations of coloring. 

When Shakespeare's house stood in some danger of 
falling into the hands of a speculative Yankee, the British 
nation was roused into taking such action as would pre- 
serve all the memorials of the poet connected with his 
birthplace. From the amount of curiosity our party 
elicited, it is possible we may have been looked upon as 
American invaders who were bent on carrying off, vi et 
armis , all the Skakesperean relics. Those of us who could 
not get under the roof of Washington Irving’s inn — the 
Red Horse — were provided with dinner in the adjacent 
bowling-alley, which, perhaps on the whole, was more 

31 


32 


STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 


comfortable than any apartment of the inn would have 
been. 

Aside from the Shakesperean associations and Trinity 
Church, there is nothing in Stratford to excite enthu- 
siasm; a thousand American towns of equal size are 
more neat and elegant, for there is no indication of wealth 
or taste, or of great antiquity ; the majority of the dwel- 
lings are positively mean, occasionally redeemed, from a 
picturesque point of view, by diamond-paned casements, 
or a porch with clustering roses. There cannot be much 
that was standing in the poet’s day, for the buildings 
were mainly of timber, and the village has suffered from 
repeated conflagrations. There are two or three principal 
streets, with lesser ones crossing at irregular distances. 
About half-way down Henley street we come before a 
nondescript low structure of timber facings divided into 
squares like a huge window sash, with the spaces filled in 
•with concrete; a wooden porch with slanting roof extends 
over the door and for a little distance each side; above 
this, a quaint old window, of greater breadth than height, 
and over that a dormer on the main roof. This is the 
birthplace of William Shakespeare, the front of which is 
a restoration, and presents a neater appearance than it 
did in his dav. The first room we entered was the 
kitchen, with a big beam running through the low ceiling, 
and a fire-place at one side considerably larger than Mary 
Stuart’s room we saw at Craigmillar Castle, in the envi- 
rons of Edinburgh. There can be but little doubt that 
here John Shakespeare and Mary Arden sat in the winter 
evenings, with a huge log from the Welcombe Ilills 
blazing on the flagged hearth, the light of which fell in 
flickering waves upon the faces of their children ; in the 
shadow of a remoter corner perchance sat the “Child of 
Destiny,” who traced in the embers the foundations of 
those creations which are for all time. Perhaps, with 
equal probability, we can picture him on one of those long- 


33 


A MERCURIAL FRENCHMAN. 

ago Christmas mornings, coming hither with nervous 
eagerness to discover what gift had been mysteriously 
deposited in his stocking suspended beneath the mantel- 
piece. Did John and Mary Shakespeare have a prescience 
that these rude rooms would become a Mecca more 
eagerly sought by the great of all nations than the proud- 
est abodes of royalty? There are two bedrooms, of no 
special interest, on the same floor as the kitchen; a nar- 
row flight of stairs leads us to a door through which we 
enter into the room where the poet is thought to have 
first opened his eyes in the world of which his genius was 
to be the proudest boast. Although every portion of the 
house open to the public was filled, there was the same 
impressive silence that is so eloquent in a dwelling where 
funeral services are in progress. 

But if we are to believe the popular Stratford tradi- 
tions, not all visitors are so undemonstrative as our 
party. Persons on being shown the room are said to 
have burst into tears; others to have fallen upon their 
knees and kissed the floor; while a mercurial Frenchman 
is reported to have rolled over the bare planks in his 
ecstatic emotion. There is probably too good founda- 
tions for the stories of attempted abstractions of relics, 
which are now as jealously guarded as the crown jewels, 
one portiait of the poet in the house being locked in a 
safe every night. The building is isolated from others 
to lessen the risk of fire, and none is ever built in it; 
nor can the most inveterate smoker light his cigar 
beneath the hallowed rpof. We were shown all the 
relics, including the traditional school-desk of Shakes- 
peare. As the skeptics have thrown so much doubt 
over the authenticity of these, we shall not enumerate 
them. 

The most curious feature of the premises is the always- 
noticed web of autographs of celebrities and nobodies 
which covers every portion of the walls of the birth-cham- 


34 


STB A TFORB-ON-A VON. 


ber. When Mary Hornby, the tenant of Shakespeare’s 
house in 1815 , was obliged to vacate in consequence of her 
rent having been raised to a point beyond her forbearance, 
to spite her successor she whitewashed the walls, covering 
with her remorseless brush the names of all the pilgrims 
inscribed to that date. The chagrin of the dame who suc- 
ceeded her vanished when she found that Mrs. Hornby had 
omitted to put any glue in her wash, so that the coating 
was easily removed, and the pencil inscriptions restored, 
but again buried beneath an untranslatable maze of later 
autographs, so overlaid and intermixed as to be as unin- 
telligible as the Rosetta Stone would be to a savage. 

Through a back entrance we emerge into the garden, in 
which are many of the plants and flowers mentioned in 
Shakespeare’s works, the majority indigenous. We then 
proceeded to New Place, on Chapel street, to view the 
site of the house in which Shakespeare died, and which was 
so causelessly destroyed by Rev. Mr. Gastrell, together 
with the mulberry tree of the garden of which so many 
relics have been made, including a chair owned by 
Baroness Burdett-Coutts-Bartlett. New Place is now the 
property of the British nation, the grounds to be ever 
kept open to the public ; eventually it will be a very lovely 
garden. 

We now approach the only structure in Stratford 
which boasts any architectural beauty, Trinity Church, 
where our poet’s ashes lie in undisturbed repose. A long 
walk extends from the road to the porch, affording a noble 
perspective of lime trees whosq^ arching foliage the sun 
was powerless to penetrate. The spot is indescribably 
suggestive ; it has inspired thousands. Mr. James Walker, 
in his elegant work upon Stratford and its gifted son, 
relates the exclamations of Ralph Waldo Emerson when 
passing up this walk, over which Shakespeare carried his 
children to be baptized, and which was the last spot of 
earth outside of Trinity Church that knew his senseless 


SHAKESPEARE’S WIFE . ;j5 

form when the mighty spirit had returned to Him who so 
wondrously endowed it. What unwritten volumes must 
there be of thoughts of kindred minds! “What kino-,” 
said Mr. Emerson, “has he not taught state, as Talma 
taught Napoleon ? What maiden has not found him 
liner than her delicacy? What lover has lie not 
out loved ? What sage has he not outseen ? What 
gentleman has he not instructed in the rudeness of his 
behavior ? ” 

The older portions of the church date back to the four- 
teenth century; it is built in the form of a cross, its gray 
stone walls and numerous massive windows harmonizing 
with the rich green of the foliage. The yard is filled with 
old stones and monuments of Stratford worthies. How 
calm they rest here within sound of the Avon’s murmur- 
ing flow ! In the noble chancel is the well-known grave 
and the tablet which has been engraved and photographed 
to such infinity as to be as familiar as the tomb of Wash- 
ington. 

So much has been said and written of Shakespeare’s 
grave that I shall only record my speculations as I stood 
over that near by of his wife. To the critic and antiquary 
I leave the task of deciding if Shakespeare’s married life 
was happy. If it cannot be proved that it was, it'cannot 
be proved that it was not; the mere fact that Anne 
Hathaway was six or seven years his senior proves noth- 
ing. Have we not seen the most famed of modern 
English ladies give her hand to an American whose years 
she outnumbered two to one? Is it too much to claim 
that William Shakespeare’s wife had estimable qualities? 
The character of the poet’s eldest and favorite daughter, 
the wife of Dr. Hall, is established by the last will of her 
father, and in the forcible epitaph on her tombstone : 


“Wittv above her sexe; but that’s not all; 
Wise to salvation was good Mistress Hall. 


36 


ST11A TFORD- ON- A VON. 


Something of Shakespeare was in that, but this 
Wholly of him, with whom she’s now in bliss. 
Then, passenger, ha*t ne’er a teare 
To weepe with her, that wept for all? 

That wept, yet set herself to eheere 
Them up with comforts cordial!. 

Her love shall live, her mercy spread 
When thou hast ne’er a teare to shed.” 


Now let us read the touching tribute Mistress Hall paid 
her mother, which proves that Anne Hathaway had the 
warmest love of her children ; and one who was so good a 
mother must have been a devoted wife. The original 
lines are written in Latin, and have been faithfully trans- 
lated as follows : 

“My life and infant nourishment, mother, to thee, 1 owe ; 

This stone, alas ! for so great gifts is all I can bestow. 

Oh that some pitying angel would the massive stone remove! 

And, as Christ’s body rose, to me restore the form I love! 

But vain mv wish! Christ, quickly come, that, when thv saints arise! 

My mother, now entombed here, may join Thee in the skies.” 

This inscription is given in Dugdale’s “Antiquities of 
Warwickshire” as originally carved on the blue stone. 
In the year 1707, a person by the name of Watts was 
buried fin Mistress Hall’s grave, and this quoted epitaph 
obliterated to make room for one commemorative of the 
intruder. On the sixth day of September, 1844, the 
Watts’ epitaph was cut out by the same chisel that restored 
Mistress Hall’s arms and filial tribute. 

Five hours after we bade adieu to Stratford from the 
old stone bridge whose Gothic arches are mirrored in the 
pretty Avon, the dome of St. Paul’s, rising above the 
homes of three millions of people, was before us as we 
approached the metropolis over the London and North- 
western liailway. 


MANY WORLDS IN ONE. 


A BOUT 1850 there was issued by an American pub- 
lisher an edition of Peter Parley’s observations in 
London, which in the superiority of its illustrations was a 
sort of avant-coureur of the multitudinous books of a sim- 
ilar character with which the children in the last quarter 
of the nineteenth century are favored. I have not seen 
the book since as a child it was only less cherished than 
the “ Child’s Own Book,” that compilation of marvellous 
tales of the mystic world ; yet how distinctly do I at this 
moment see each of those engravings in “Peter Parley,” 
— the Achilles Statue in Hyde Park, the Tunnel, the 
Bank of England, the Abbey, and the hundred other points 
of interest in a city which every American hopes to live 
long enough to behold. 

Standing here in the Golden Gallery of St. Paul’s, just 
below the Bull and Cross, the highest point we dare ven- 
ture, four hundred feet above the level of London Bridge, 
something of the old-time spell comes over me. You will 
recollect when you stood on the stone roof of Girard 
College, in the memorable summer of 1876, as you looked 
over the most numerous habitations of man that can be 
seen in a single American city, for, with a less population, 
Philadelphia contains more dwellings than New York, 
you exclaimed, “What a world of houses!” But here, 
your eye taking in the circuit of fifteen miles around 
Charing Cross, as you analyze the component parts of 
London you say, “ How many worlds in one ! ” For a 
country whose oldest city has just celebrated its two hun- 
dred and fiftieth anniversary, we can claim populated 

37 


38 


MANY WORLDS IN ONE. 


centres of such magnitude as to be almost extraordinary in 
so new a country. London and Paris, with centuries of 
civilization before the continent we occupy was known in 
Europe to exist, should not be brought into comparison 
with our capitals, in respect to population, with any other 
sentiment than to gain by it a relative idea of extent. 
The city of London, within the jurisdiction of the Metro- 
politan Board of Works and the London School Board 
contains a population of 3,885,641 ; equal to that of the six 
largest cities of the United States. 

It is with emotions never before experienced that we con- 
template this exhibit of humanity in the concrete — the 
World of many Worlds. What concentrations of jnety 
and vice; wealth and poverty; Sybaritic luxury and soul- 
sickening squalor; learning and ignorance; thrift and 
improvidence ! 

Slowly, step by step, do we make the circuit of the 
gallery above the great dome, in vain attempting to 
measure the scene exjjanded before us ; the eye compre- 
hends it better than the mind. Never in the pulpit of 
the cathedral below us, was there preached such a sermon 
on the importance of humility, as comes to us here in 
the roar of London streets. Let those who think their 
existence of importance to the world, stand here for an 
hour, and consider what infinitesimal atoms the greatest 
are. Nations rise, mature and perish ; dynasties are born 
and expire; but the London world goes on the same, 
each hour waxing mightier — a great monster with a 
hundred claws grasping at the outlying country, which 
it devours. At what limit will it stay? In one decade, 
from 1870 to 1880, eight hundred thousand souls were 
added to its population. 

The clock on the southwest tower of St. Paul’s is a 
curiosity, from the ponderous character of its mechanism ; 
the minute-hand is eight feet long, and weighs seventy- 
five pounds. A quaint inscription on the bell reads: 


ST. PAUL'S BELL. 


39 


“Richard Phelps made me, 1716.” Save to strike the 
hours, this bell is never sounded, except at the deaths of 
any members of the Royal Family, the Bishop of London, 
and the Lord Mayor, should he die in office. We little 
thought that the first deviation from these rules would 
so soon occur by the tolling of St. Paul’s bell* at the 
death of a murdered American president. 

Nearly all the stereotyped wonders of London are 
seen under favorable auspices. Our excursions to the 
suburbs were limited to a visit to Sydenham, where we 
found it so difficult to get away from the Crystal Palace. 
But as we are only on the threshold of the doorway 
that leads to the marvels of the Continent, we are warned 
to be sparing of our delight until the cliffs of Albion are 
left behind. 


BELOW TIIE SEA. 


O UR hacks are now turned on London and its thou- 
sand wonders, and we are fairly started for the 
Continent. Had I heen travelling upon my own respon- 
sibility, I should have chosen the all-sea route from 
London for Holland, by which we could have enjoyed 
a trip down the Thames. The boats of this line, the 
General Steam Navigation Company, leave St. Katharine’s 
dock, and are popular with the travelling public. The 
Harwich route is that we follow, which takes us across 
the whole county of Essex. The districts we pass a few 
miles out from the great metropolis are exceedingly rich; 
the fields are in the highest state of cultivation, and the 
cattle appear as if they were the prize animals of a 
thousand fairs. A ride of sixty-six miles leaves us at 
Harwich, where we embark on a comfortable, but terribly 
crowded boat. 

The passage across the North Sea was not marked by 
any event of importance. The few hard days’ work in 
and around London ensured the necessity of all the rest 
we could snatch before entering upon the main objective 
point of our trip* — the tour of the Continent. We were 
roused very early by the melancholy tolling of a bell, 
which proved to proceed from one attached to a bell- 
buoy. This led one of the younger members of our party 
to conclude there was a hotel somewhere in the middle 
of the North Sea, as he had heard one of the bell-boys. 
We now catch our first glimpse of the Continent, a wide 
stretch of low land, a few dwarfish trees such as are 
seen on the south shore of Long Island, and, further 

40 


ROTTERDAM. 


41 


inland, the lazy swinging arms of numerous windmills. 
A slight agitation in the boat is perceptible as we pass 
o\ er the bar at one of the mouths of the river Maas, 
where at low tide the water is but about seven feet in 
depth. The few towers and spires of the quaint old town 
of Briel are clearly drawn against the morning sky. It 
is twelve miles from Rotterdam, with a population of five 
thousand, as much given to nautical pursuits as the inhab- 
itants of Nantucket. Queen Elizabeth once held a mort- 
gage on the whole town of Briel as security for the loans 
she advanced the Hollanders during the Spanish persecu- 
tions, and which was held until 1616, the year of Shakes- 
peare’s death. A little further progress takes us abreast 
Schiedam, a name so identified with a certain beverage. 
It is hedged in with windmills, and two hundred distil- 
leries are engaged in converting grain — which is more 
needed for bread — into a popular intoxicant. While I 
am penning these lines all Europe is much agitated over 
the suj)jjosed diseased condition of American imported 
pork ; I would ask what must be the condition of the 
thirty thousand pigs annually fattened upon the vile 
refuse of the Schiedam distilleries? The tall chimnevs 
and long low buildings we see here belong to the white 
lead factories and rope manufactories. 

It is with feelings of no ordinary interest we approach 
Rotterdam, which even before we land has given evidence 
of life and customs most novel to an American; quaint 
old houses, canals, drawbridges, boats loaded with every 
species of commodity, the flags of all nations among the 
shipping mingling in commercial amity with the Stars 
and Stripes, for there is. an active trade between Rotter- 
dam and the United States. A direct line of steamers 
from here to New York was opened in 1872. 

My ideas of Dutch stolidity had undergone consider- 
able change even before reaching our hotel, by the move- 
ments of the lively population ; cattle stampeding through 


42 


BELOW THE SEA. 


the streets on the way to be shipped ; huge baggage- 
wagons thundering past; steamers puffing and blowing; 
bells jingling and tolling; girls from lofty gable-windows 
shaking carpets; bales of merchandise ascending and 
descending, attached to the ropes pendant from tackles 
a hundred feet above the canals ; dogs, asses, and men 
and women, dragging along heavily-loaded carts ; canal 
boats gay as floating rainbows drifting by, some with 
flower-pots in the cabin windows. All this we note 
before reaching our quarters at the Victoria Hotel, where 
we sit down to the best breakfast since leaving America, 
where the last hotel in which we had been domiciled, 
singularly enough, enjoyed such a Dutch appelative as 
the St. Nicholas, while this is so distinctively English in 
its title. The strawberries at this breakfast were deli- 
cious, and I knoAv not how to account for the assertion 
of a celebrated English authoress, that the Holland straw- 
berries are without flavor. The most fastidious lady 
could find nothing to cavil at here at the Victoria ; the 
table-linen is immaculate, and the napkins of such size 
that two of them would make one equal to those aprons 

the older New England housekeepers used to wear 

of blue and white checked stuff — reaching from the 
chin to the feet. From the perfect cleanliness of every- 
thing about the hotel, we can believe all the stories 
of Dutch neatness, even to those of Broeck, where the 
cows’ tails are tied up that they may not soil the tiled 
walls of the stables, and where the rose-leaves are flung 
into the canal that they may not litter the streets. 
What an enviable condition is this compared to that 
of our grand Empire City, whose people are at this 
moment on their knees begging the Albany magnates 
to so legislate that the seeds of pestilence and death 
may be removed from their dirt-heaped thoroughfares. 

After breakfast we saunter forth for a glimpse of 
Rotterdam life. The canals, of course, are the most 


TOLLS. 


43 


striking feature, and momentarily recall my distant home, 
where the vast flotillas of inland commerce pass us daily 
and nightly along the Erie Canal. The Dutch barges are 
more unwieldy than ours, but much gayer in their decora- 
tion. Indeed, there is no lack of color anywhere in Hol- 
land, the Dutch Venice-land, although colors here lack 
the softness and harmony which robes the Queen of the 
Adriatic. Rotterdam must be a paradise for house 
painters and decorators; the houses are evidently freshly 
painted every two or three years, and I fancy that the 
white-lead factories of Schiedam find a profitable home 
market. Some of the house fronts look like an upright 
show-case of ribbon-boxes; the door and window-frames, 
the sashes, cornices and finials all in different colors, and 
so clean that they would bear the Yankee test of wiping 
with a cambric handkerchief. What freaks a March wind 
may perform in the Dutch capitals I cannot say, but at the 
time of our visit it was a very adroit specie of dust that 
could elude the vigilance of the cleaning brigade; the 
fronts of the dwellings are washed by a machine with hose, 
and if the passers-by are not on the alert, their garments 
will receive a portion of the falling spray. The city is so 
intersected by canals that it appears to be one great 
harbor. The draw-bridges are bewildering in their fre- 
quency ; the tender lets down to the barge a bag or pocket 
in which the toll is deposited. It appears to me that tolls, 
either on water or land, belong to a past age ; they were 
long since abolished on American turnpikes, and on the 
Rhine; and a petition is now before the Legislature of 
New York, to make the Erie Canal free. 

Holland, as is well-known, is below the sea. It is envi- 
roned with enemies whose encroachments nothing but the 
most sleepless vigilance will keep at bay. The sea assails 
her in the face, while the Rhine and its offshoots watch to 
seize her by the back. The natural order of geography is 
here reversed ; the fields, or polders, are often twenty-five 


44 


BELOW THE SEA. 


feet below the keel of the vessel which sails past them. 
In most countries the study with engineers planning canals 
is from whence to get their water ; in Holland the utmost 
ingenuity is exercised how to keep it out. The cities of 
other lands are in continual dread of destruction by fire ; 
in Holland the ever-present threatening danger is water. 
The sides of the canals appear solid, oftentimes have a 
wide road each side lined with large trees; but a rat may 
bore its way through, making an orifice which, if not closed, 
will enlarge until the whole surrounding region is inun- 
dated. There are two inundations of Holland on record 
in which one hundred and sixty thousand perished. 
Sailors of all nations are met in the streets- of Rotterdam, 
adding much to the cosmopolitan scenes on every hand. 
I was unable to learn what is done here for their spiritual 
welfare; but I saw enough to convince me it was a field 
for good mission work in their behalf. While the out-door 
life of Rotterdam is eminently picturesque, it is in perfect 
harmony with the prevailing architecture of the older 
portions ; although we detected an incongruity in buildings 
with side walls in the style of the sixteenth century, but 
with modern fronts, reminding one of an octogenarian 
beau in the wig of a youth of twenty. The statue of 
Erasmus interested me ; it is a fine bronze near by his 
birthplace (in the market-place), which is now used as a 
shop for the sale of cabbages and turnips — a circumstance 
quite destructive to the poetic reverence we entertained 
for the spot. 

Our four hours’ limit for seeing this interesting city had 
now expired, and at two in the afternoon we took the 
train for the Hague, the Dutch Washington. Had I not 
been desirous to study the country, the slow pace of the 
tiain would have been wearisome. The Dutch express 
trains are not so fast as American accommodations. It 
has been amusingly said that the conductors do not permit 
speed, in order that tourists may have the impression that 


HAGUE. 


45 


the country is much larger than it is. The cars are very 
comfortable, the road-bed level as a table, consequently 
there is scarcely more motion than on a North river 
steamboat. It was quite novel to travel by railway with- 
out perceptible motion or noise, for the road is so elastic, 
with no hills to reverberate, the wheels appear to be roll- 
ing oyer velvet. The country we are now passing through 
is brilliantly green, intersected in every direction by 
ditches and canals, the former serving as hedges. In the 
fields not cultivated the grass had been freshly mown. In 
others, herds of noble cattle were quietly feeding. Ten 
miles from liotterdam we pass Delft on the river Schie; 
but the Avare which formerly gave so much celebrity to the 
town is now surpassed by English competition. 

Dear, delightful Hague ! It was not my fault that poor 
tired nature did not permit a complete enjoyment of your 
manifold attractions. The tourist from America who 
travels on the Aving as we do, and fancies he or she is to 
have a three months’ exemption from bodily fatigue, will 
be as much deceived as our poor boys in 1861 , who 
started to subdue the Confederates in the spirit of entering 
upon a Southern holiday excursion. To combine rest and 
profit as much as Avas possible, I sat at the window of a 
room enjoying the lovely view — the meadows beyond the 
canal, the background of heavy timber, the green arcades 
formed over the streets by the trees which meet in frater- 
nal embrace, and through which, here and there, could be 
seen the yelloAv bricks of the street pavement, looking 
almost like specks of golden sunlight. After dinner I 
summoned resolution to join others on a visit to the 
Queen’s Palace in the Wood. My stock of superlatives 
for expressing admiration were all exhausted long before 
arriving at the palace. Elegant squares, richly shaded 
streets, imposing residences, gardens blazing Avith color, 
are some of the impressions of that delightful drive. I 
shall never question the veracity of the native author Avho 


46 


BELO W THE SEA. 


said the Hague “had a tree, a flower, and a bird for each 
of its eighty thousand inhabitants.” The approach to the 
palace of the late Queen (a most interesting character) is 
through a stately park of oaks, dotted with flower beds, 
and artificial lakes on which swans are seen gliding with a 
haughty air as if conscious of their aristocratic surround- 
ings. The exterior is plain, but once over the threshold 
of the stately entrance, the eye is ravished with the 
exquisite elegance of the interior. We had visited num- 
erous castles and cathedrals in England and Scotland, but 
this is the first live palace we have entered, and it was 
truly our beau ideal of a palace. Yet beautiful as it is, 
death could knock as loudly at its gates as at the ‘door of 
the humblest cottage, and its late royal occupant had to 
obey the universal mandate. The dining-room has a 
dome in the centre ; the wood- work is admirably carved 
and painted white. The Japanese room is the repository 
of the furniture made in Japan and presented to the 
Queen, and which was her favorite room. She was a 
superior woman, a contributor of brilliant papers upon 
miscellaneous subjects to French and German reviews; it 
is said that she addressed a letter to Napoleon III., in 
which she predicted the misfortunes France subsequently 
experienced. The Queen held large estates in her own 
right which were bequeathed to her son, who entertained 
for her the most devoted affection. Her love of letters is 
indicated by the portrait of Motley, the only portrait in 
the room. In the superb ball-room, however, are found 
many valuable paintings, including masterpieces of Ru- 
bens. A table of rare workmanship is also found here, 
and beyond an open door we have a vista made up of the 
flowers and shrubbery of the palace garden, which it was 
difficult to leave. It was not so much the costliness of 
the palace and its contents that elicited our admiration, 
as the faultless taste exhibited, to the minutest details. 


PAUL POTTER. 


47 


The picture gallery in the Maurits Huis, or House of 
Maurice, would interest all lovers of art. It contains 
the famous cattle piece of Paul Potter, familiar by 
its frequent copies, etchings and engravings, none of 
which, however, preserve the startling vitality of the orig- 
inal ; the principal figure appears ready to leap out of the 
canvas, and I should scarcely dare to wave a red shawl in 
its face without being sure of a safe retreat. This young 
genius was a frail man who died of consumption before 
his thirtieth year. I do not think any person can look 
upon Rembrandt’s “Anatomist” with pleasure, unless 
possessed of such morbid tastes as led Byron to make a 
drinking-cup of a skull. Yet the merest tyro in art in- 
stantly recognizes the hand of a master in the matchless 
grouping and coloring and effects ef light. 

Our next stage brings us to Haarlem, where we were 
promised a rare treat in hearing the long-famed organ. 
Programmes were distributed by the conductor on the 
train, with a list of the pieces to be performed ; but on 
reaching the Cathedral we found a marriage ceremony in 
progress which considerably curtailed the performance for 
our melody-itching ears. The novelty of a Dutch wed- 
ding was not sufficient to atone for this unlooked-for 
abridgement ; and but few of us, besides one or two sus- 
ceptible youth, that were not heartily glad when the 
bridal cortege departed. The organ and the playing can- 
not be understood save on the spot. The whole range of 
melody, from the dripping of silver rain to the explo- 
sions of an Alpine thunder storm, was sounded by that 
king of instruments. I longed to withdraw to one of the 
lofty galleries and out of sight of all mankind drink in 
those strains which would enchant the ears of angels. 
Had I obeyed this impulse I should have been left behind, 
for our party had to leave for the Amsterdam train before 
the concert was over. We are now in the commercial 


48 


BELO W THE SEA. 


capital of Holland, and one of the wealthiest cities of the 
world. Amsterdam is in no greater danger from drought 
than its sister cities ; the river Amstel runs through it, 
and the Zuyder-Zee fills its numberless canals, and flows 
beneath its two hundred and ninety bridges, and laves the 
shores of its ninety-five islands. The approach is over 
very low and swampy ground, which in case of an attack 
by a hostile foe can be flooded, and the enemy meet the 
fate of Pharaoh and his hosts. Built upon piles driven 
through the spongy surface, it is little wonder that so 
many of its houses have a habit of fraternizing; for many 
a gable is seen nodding to its neighbor, so near that an 
ordinary plank could be stretched from window to win- 
dow. All sorts of curious costumes, quaint customs and 
novel life greet you here as at Rotterdam, but more 
national than at the latter city. The house-gables front- 
ing the street remind us of the engravings of Albany in 
the old Knickerbocker days. They are of brick and very 
high, many of six stories, terminating in a little window 
just under the dizzy peak. Ko American housekeeper 
would ever feel at home in these houses unless provided 
with elevators ; the stairs are not quite as perpendicular 
as a ladder, but at a sharper incline than are ever seen in 
America. The signs afford infinite amusement to those 
who can read them ; one signifies that the occupant’s call- 
ing is to “wake up” people, — a sort of human alarm 
clock. Many of the merchants dwell in houses along a 
canal facing their stores and warerooms on the opposite 
side, an advantage for keeping his eye upon his employees 
no Fifth avenue merchant enjoys. Save in the Jews’ 
quarter, the city is as clean as those we have elsewhere 
spoken of. The short skirts of the women and amplitude 
of the men’s garments were new to all of us who had not 
seen emigrants from Holland at Castle Garden; the for- 
mer were met in the streets with arms and necks bare 


VICTORIA HOTEL. 


49 


“'I 0fte " with indescribably bizarre head-dresses. I 
never tired of watching the movements on the canals ; 
some of the barges laden with fruits and vegetables were 
pleasing to the eye, and when their freights are arranged 
in the markets they afford real studies, being grouped 
with consummate taste for effect. What a treat it would 
be to visit those resorts at night and see the plump women 

aigjunmg with their customers, shielding their candles 
with their hands, the divisions of the fingers marked by 
crimson lines, as you see in the market scenes of the 
Flemish school. But all the women of Holland are not 
engaged in occupation which affords any pleasure to the 
beholder; they are often seen dragging carts and boats, 
sometimes yoked with a man, painfully tugging along a 
heavy barge; again a cow and a bullock would perform 
the same service. 

The Dutch must be a forgiving people, and have evi- 
dently forgotten that their famous Admiral Yon Tromp 
once tied a broom to his mast-head and vowed to sweep 
the English from the North Sea. Here at Amsterdam 
we rest at the second hotel in Holland at which we have 
stopped named after the ruler of England. But the most 
vigilant inquiry is not rewarded by finding any memorial 
in honor of Spain, whose terrible butcheries in the Neth- 
erlands by the Duke of Alva can never be wiped from 
human memory. 

We are ready to indorse nearly all we saw iii Amster- 
dam, save the unpleasant condition of the water in the 
canals, and the stench which rises from them. The canals 
here are not so bright and pure as those between Rotter- 
dam and Haarlem, and where the additional advantage was 
had of contrast with green meadows. In winter the canals 
of Amsterdam are a scene of the utmost gayety, with half 
the population on skates. This is something more than an 
accomplishment for pastime, for a great deal of business is 
accomplished on skates. In the time of the Spanish war 


no 


BELO W TIIE SEA. 


the citizens of Haarlem put their skill in skating to good 
service. A fleet of Dutch vessels was frozen up near the 
city and the Spaniards, thinking to make an easy capture, 
were met by the crews which skated out and quickly dis- 
persed the assailants by their rapid movements, and caus- 
ing considerable wonder to the Duke of Alva, who was 
unused to such tactics of war. The following day a thaw 
set in, allowing the fleet to escape ; the thaw was suc- 
ceeded by another frost, which again closed the channel, 
preventing pursuit. The Duke now ordered seven thou- 
sand pairs of skates, and the Spaniards were soon as ex- 
pert upon the ice as the Dutchmen. 

I left Holland with an unsatisfied state of mind. I be- 
lieve there is no portion of the Continent less known and 
understood in the United States ; and until very recently 
it has been comparatively ignored by its near neighbors, 
the English. I have never dared to tell certain friends of 
New England that while at Rotterdam I failed to visit 
Delfthaven, from which sailed that little craft bearing the 
seed from which was to spring the mighty republic whose 
possibilities for Christian grandeur are without limit. 
Carlyle, who did not like us, could say — “ Thou, little 
Mayflower, liadst in thee a veritable Promethean spark of 
the greatest nation on the earth ; so may we name the 
Transatlantic Saxon nation.” 

There is no part of the Continent to which I would 
more gladly return for a thorough survey than Holland. 
Within a decade it will become the fashion for tourists to 
throng its territory as they now overrun the Swiss valleys. 
Aside from its unique geographical features, New England- 
ers will be attracted here for the land having been the first 
refuge of the Pilgrim Fathers when the British Parliament 
passed an Act to compel obstinate persons to attend the 
national church ; New Yorkers will wish to visit the home 
of the founders of New Amsterdam. The officers of the 
Rotterdam Library have almost daily applications from 


R O TTERDAM LIBRAR Y. 


51 


Americans for information concerning their Dutch ances- 
try. 

In literature, science and art Holland does not sustain 
the renown of its past ; but its memorials of those whose 
names the world will never allow to perish are fondly 
cherished. We do not expect to visit any country where 
there is more thrift and content, less misery and* want, 
than in this land below the sea. 

We are now on the train from Amsterdam for a long 
night-ride to Cologne and the Rhine. The Rhine ! Will 
the dreams of our youth be realized ? Time will tell. 


WALKS IN COLOGNE. 


I T would have been a marvel if a party so large as ours 
in travelling over a vast continent, and by so many 
modes of locomotion, should not have encountered more 
or less peril. With the exception of the awful storm in 
mid-Atlantic, on the Circassia , the most imminent danger 
to which we were exposed was on the wearisome night- 
ride from Amsterdam to Cologne. 

There are no sleeping cars on the Continental trains, and 
during the two months we spent between Edinburgh and 
Pompeii, I do not think I had a dozen hours of sound 
sleep in the many nights spent on board of railway trains. 
Goldoni relates that he had an infallible sleep-inducing 
resort in a dictionary he was compiling of an old Venetian 
dialect. I partially succeeded in gaining the same result 
by overhauling my notes and jotting down the impres- 
sions. While thus engaged, a few hours out from Amster- 
dam, I managed to get into a half-doze, from which I was 
aroused by an eccentric motion of the car, and instantly 
reached forth to grasp the cord which invariably runs 
along the centre of the ceiling of American railway cars, 
but which here is outside, beyond the reach of passengers. 
Unable to give an alarm, I sat for some moments appar- 
ently self-possessed, but in reality in great trepidation. It 
was not until some terrible moments later that the cause 
was discovered ; a wheel had broken, and we had been 
whirled a long distance just so much deficient in the proper 
running gear of the car. Nothing but the circumstance 
that the car was in the centre of the train, preserved us 
from accident, and perhaps from a terrible death. 

52 


RELICS AND HERETICS. 


5o 


The Rhine at Cologne is a sober body, who turns his 
back upon his gay youth and revelry, and enters upon the 
staid respectability of maturer years. The river here is 
considerably over a mile in width, with a channel varying 
from thirty to fifty feet in depth. 

Were it not for that marvel of architecture, the Cathe- 
dral, there are several churches at Cologne which would 
repay long and frequent visits; but the Cathedral exhausts 
all the interest and enthusiasm. Mrs. Stowe’s advice to 
tourists not to take more than three of the Cologne 
churches before breakfast, is judicious, for they draw 
heavily upon one’s vitality. St. Peter’s not only contains 
Rubens’ great masterpiece of the crucifixion of the Pat- 
ron Saint, but near it is the house in which the artist 
died. The painting was presented to the church by 
Rubens, in acknowledgment of the receipt of a copy of 
his baptismal register. There is a tradition that the au- 
thorities were chagrined that the donation was not in a 
form which would have augmented the treasury. Upon 
learning their discontent, Rubens offered twenty-eight 
thousand crowns for the work. This at once aroused the 
heads of the church to a better appreciation of the paint- 
ing, which from that day to this has been the delight of 
the connoisseur. When in the possession of the French, a 
copy was made of it in the Louvre, and which is yet on the 
back of the original. 

While Americans are the most popular travellers in 
Europe, from their numbers and generosity, I think the 
cicerones must often curse them in their hearts for their 
lack of credulity, and especially for their stoicism over 
cherished relics. What little veneration we had in theory 
for relics of saints and martyrs, has been almost wholly 
extinguished by the exorbitant demands upon our faith at 
Cologne. At this rate, by the time we reach Rome we 
shall be the most incorrigible of heretics. 

My chief regret on a visit to the Church of St. Ursula, 


54 


WALKS IN COLOGNE. 


the world-renowned depository of the hones and skulls 
of the eleven thousand British virgins slain here by the 
Huns, was that I had not made my purchase of the gen- 
uine Jean Marina F arina, in order to be better fortified 
against the ghastly spectacle, and the consequence to 
the olfactory organs. In vain did I make research for the 
remains of the fifty-nine thousand virgins, for, if the 
tradition be true, there were sixty thousand of these 
adventurous maids who accompanied St. Ursula from 
Britain to her destination at Bretagne. 

The Cathedral, like the Alps, should be taken by grad- 
ual approaches, in order that the mind may be in a proper 
receptive condition to judge of its architecture, which, 
more than any other structure I have seen, realizes the 
expression “ frozen music.” A grand view of the exterior 
is afforded from the parapet extending along the river in 
front of the beautiful gardens at Deutz, on the right 
bank : that is, on the east side, as the terms right and 
east bank are so named for their location as you descend 
the Rhine. From Calais to Naples you can find no build- 
mg which so unites Youth and Age as the Cologne 
Cathedral. 

A nearer view of the exterior than that afforded at 
Deutz does not lessen the impression. Standing here 
beneath the shadow of its massive gray walls, some por- 
t.ons crumbling with decay, others hid by moss and ivy 
while the later portions have the appearance of being 
fresh from the mason’s hand, I felt that it would not be 
possible to see elsewhere a more majestic work of man 
or one which would excite such varied thought. 

The ground plan is the usual cruciform. Including 
those of the portico, there are upwards of one hundred 

columns, four in the interior being thirty feet in circum- 
ference, the peers of those at Karnak. But it is not until 
we have passed beyond the main portal that we begin to 
realize the superiority of the design. It is said that the 


“ PALM TREES IN STONE.” 


55 


original architect intended that the nave and choir should 
present the appearance of a petrified forest. It may seem 
presumption in man to attempt to embody such an ambi- 
tious dream, almost the infinity of space in tangible form, 
but surely it is here accomplished as nearly as it may be 
by finite hands. I have been told of not only women but 
men of such susceptibility that, when gazing up these 
ever-ascending columns to the flowing branches of their 
capitals, in the vault half-hid in the mists of distance, 
have been unable to control the emotions which overpow- 
ered them. We stand in the dark shadows of the nave, 
at the right of the entrance, nearly as petrified as the 
stone and marble effigies looking down from their lofty 
niches. Through the transept came a flood of crimson, 
green and purple light ; shafts of illuminated dust radiat- 
ing from a window of painted glass, itself as high as an 
ordinary church; these shafts falling obliquely upon the 
pavement, seemed the veritable Jacob’s ladder, and one 
would scarcely think it a miracle to behold the ascending 
and descending angels. Falling away on either side is that 
wonderful perspective of “ palm trees in stone,” which all 
the splendors of St* Peter’s at Rome can not obliterate 
from memory. Beyond, stretch chapel after chapel, altars 
blazing with the gems of Asia and Africa, until the aching 
eye rests upon the vanishing point, the high altar with its 
golden coffin containing the bones of the Magi, over 
whose skulls are written with rubies their names — Cas- 
par, Melclioir, Balthasar ; these relics are seen through a 
railing of exquisite workmanship, inlaid with gold and 
precious gems. 

Not until the peals of the distant organ fell upon my 
ear did I wake to the knowledge that I was an inhabitant 
of this every-day world, and moved from the spot where 
I had stood so long enchained by the sublimity of this 
matchless pile. What must have been the mmd of the 
man that conceived this marvel ? How the glories of the 


56 


WALKS IN COLOGNE. 


Apocalyptic vision must have hung over his head. ITow 
apposite the words, written in Latin, upon a minor taber- 
nacle decorated with seven columns, and quoted from the 
Proverbs of Solomon: “Wisdom hath builded her house, 
she hath hewn out her seven pillars.” The work upon the 
altars and lesser portions of the interior, the designs of 
men of different centuries, is naturally incongruous, and 
does not harmonize with the original plan ; but nothing 
short of positive barbarism can destroy the principal effect. 
My advice would be to those who have cherished a life- 
time ideal of St. Peter’s to go to Rome before Cologne, in 
order that they may enjoy a fruition of the same without 
abatement by comparison in architectural majesty with its 
rival on the Rhine. It mattered not that it Avas a temple 
dedicated to another faith than that of mine. I could ex- 
claim Avith Dr. Prime, Avhen gazing upon the scarcely less 
maiwel of the SeA’ille Cathedral, “This is the temple of 
the Living God.” 

In tAvo of the side chapels seiwice of some kind Avas in 
progress, from one of which came forth the music of a 
chant of ravishing sweetness. I thought it to be a boy 
choir ; it might have been, however, that I was prejudiced 
to that conclusion from the recollection of a beautiful 
song that Avas uppermost in my mind : 


“Oh, sweet and dim the light and shade 
Across the minster stealing ; 

I heard the grand old organ played, 

The anthem upward stealing ; 

One boy’s sweet voice above the rest 
I heard so clearly ringing, 

The angels must his dreams have blest, 

T(f teach him such sweet singing.” 

Going into a shop after our A'isit to St. Ursula’s church, 
whose walls are hung with ivy, in whose foliage the birds 
are happily domesticated, I made my first purchase of eau- 
de-Cologne, in the city of its manufacture and identified 


THE DEUTZ GARDENS. 


57 


with its name, which we trace to Agrippina, the wife of 
Ctesar Claudius. 

The traffic in eau-de-Cologne is enormous; there are 
some half-dozen factories in the city, each claiming to 
manufacture the genuine article. The sales are said to 
amount to a sum equal to thirty millions of dollars annu- 
ally. The result ought to sweeten and purify the whole 
world, but there are quarters in Naples in which I think it 
is unknown. 

The gaidens at Deutz, to which allusion has been made, 
form an attractive resort for the populace of Cologne! 
The effect of the brilliant colors of the ladies 5 dresses in 
conjunction with the blossoms of rare exotics, is very fine. 
The zoological gardens are so near that the howl of an 
irate lion often penetrates here — a sound somewhat more 
formidable than the imitative roar of Snug the joiner in 
“Midsummer Night’s Dream.” There is much less re- 
straint among women in public places in Germany, partic- 
ularly at Cologne, than in American cities. Good humor 
and little regard for conventionalities appeared their chief 
characteristics. 

When I retired to my room at ten o’clock I felt that I 
was considerably the richer for my experience in this an- 
tique city. The night was dark and a dismal rain was 
falling. Throwing my window open I looked out towards 
the Rhine, which on the morrow I was to explore. It 
seemed like those fleeting recollections of half-remembered 
dreams to think that I was really on the banks of the 
witching stream of legend and romance. 


THE RHINE. 



k HE Rhine! The Jordan is dear to us for its immor- 


X tal association with our Lord ; the Nile carries us 
to the birth of history, art and letters; the Thames, the 
Hudson and Mississippi, each have their mighty claims, 
either for our admiration or wonder. Yet to the Rhine 
are we constrained to agree with the Germans that it is 
the Father of Rivers. There are isolated portions of our 
pride of the Empire State which stand unrivalled for 
their beauty and magnificence, and were the Rhine di- 
vested of its vineyards, its legendary lore, its ruins and 
castles, and its untold wealth of historic association, the 
Hudson might then be declared the equal, by some the 
superior, as was the case by a late English writer with 
reference to the natural scenery of the two streams. Let 
me here add that both the Hudson and the Rhine need 
more study than a steamboat trip from Albany to New 
York, or from Cologne to Mayence affords, in order to 
properly estimate their natural features. I have found 
that the Hudson has grown upon me the more that my 
opportunities increased for enjoying its manifold beauties, 
and no doubt it would be the same with its transatlantic 


rival. 


To the intelligent American who has not yet -entered 
Italy, the Rhine yields a hitherto unknown pleasure. It 
is the first tangible grasp of History, for on its banks 
stand the memorials of men and nations coeval with the 
advent of the Christian era. 

As we entered the boat at nine o , clock on the mornin^ 
of July 21st, the dreary rain was yet falling. Nothing 

58 ° 


“ the VILLA ON THE IUIINE N 


59 


daunted, we made ourselves comfortable, and resolved no 
“ eoigne of vantage ” should escape us in our ascent. 

As some may read these lines who have yet in store 
the delight of a foreign tour, I would ask them to bear in 
mind that in going from Cologne to Mayence you sail in 
the same direction as in descending the Hudson from 
Albany to Hew York, with this difference, that on the 
Rhine you are going up stream, and that the distance is 
about twenty-five miles less. 

The progress of our boat is steady but slow, in conse- 
quence of beating the current : thus we are afforded time 
for viewing the principal points of attraction as we pass. 
Bonn is the first town of note we approach, situated on 
the left bank, upon a gentle eminence rising from the 
river. 

An enthusiastic admirer of the novelist, Herr Auerbach, 
author of “ The Villa on the Rhine,” points out a resi- 
dence at Bonn as the original of that introduced in the 
fiction ; it is said to be the estate of a German who made 
a fortune in America. What a bonanza is our land to the 
Irish and Germans. 

As we continue our progress upward, the retrospective 
view is charming. We have on board a little Parisian 
lady, as bright as a tin pan taking its airing on an out- 
door shelf in a summer morning’s sun. She is restless 
as Ariel, and darts hither and thither, scattering bits of 
comment and gossip, as a wren hops about dropping bits 
of sticks. Every new perspective opened by turning a 
curve in the stream is heralded by fresh ejaculations, all 
of which are variations of her key-note — “ Mon Dien , 
qne c'est beau ! ” 

Four miles from Bonn bring us to Godesberg, on the 
same bank. A high wind accompanied the rain that 
beset us at the start, and at this point compelled many to 
retreat from the deck. This gives an additional force 
to the old legend told of Kreuzberg, now in sight. It is 


60 


THE 1UIINE. 


said that his Satanic Majesty was one day passing here 
in company with the wind, and tiring of such airy escort, 
invited Boreas to wait for him while he called upon the 
owner of an estate they were passing. His Majesty, 
however, failed to return, and the wind has been waiting 
for him ever since. 

We are now entering a portion of the stream which 
realizes our ideal Rhine; here rise the Drachenfels, one of 
the volcanic group of the Seven Mountains, on our left ; 
at the right is pretty Rolandsdeck, and the island of 
Nonnenwerth, so near that we can almost grasp the foliage 
of its shores hanging so lovingly over the Rhine, enamored 
with its own beauty. The highest of the Seven Mourn 
tains does not exceed fifteen hundred feet, but they impart 
a picturesque character to the region indescribably charm, 
ing to the eye a little wearied with the flatness of Holland 
and the Rhine below this point. When Nature lingered 
here she was in a sportive and happy mood. Here she 
stands as Lady Bountiful, lavishing upon earth her 
choicest favors. What the views must be from these 
heights, each capped with castle or ruin, the imagination 
can conceive, even if the eye, as in our case, is denied 
the sight. But if we cannot ascend the Seven Hills, we 
can drink our fill of the beauty on either hand. 

I find it easy to believe the story of Roland and the 
beautiful Ilildegunde, while the nunnery in which she 
took the veil is visible from our boat, as we peep through 
the little vistas which allow us glimpses of Nonnenwerth, 
lying in the stream like an emerald in a bracelet of 
silver. 

Beyond a gentle detour of the river we discern the 
little valley with the poetic name of Ileisterbach Mantle, 
m whose green bosom lies the ruin of an abbey which is 
sufficiently intact to testify to its former beauty and 
extent. This is the Abbey of Ileisterbach, the site of 
which, says the legend, was chosen by an ass. The monks 


1 JOVIAL PARTY. 


61 


first built their chapel upon a neighboring height, but 
desiring a warmer spot they packed the ecclesiastical 
property that was portable upon an ass, wdtli the resolve 
to build wherever the animal should halt, which happened 
to be in this little Eden of a valley. 

In the forward part of our boat are seated six or eight 
men around a table, and drinking wine or beer with a 
zest that betrays their nationality. They appear utterly 
oblivious to all else about them; their faces are as round 
as the full moon, and at every fresh story or anecdote 
they laugh with such abandon that their entire bodies 
quiver like a dish of blanc-inange. 

Not all the charms of the Rhine could induce our com- 
pany to neglect the slightest excuse for eating, the Rhine 
air is such an appetite generator. A lately published his- 
tory of Yale College tells of the students in earlier times, 
who stood at the table while a blessing was said, at the 
conclusion of which two forks would be found sticking in 
each potato. The impulse at a Rhine steamboat dinner 
is scarcely less aggressive. 

The river was not so green as I had read. It is possible 
that its color varies in accord with atmospherical condi- 
tions. The heavy rains may have caused the argillaceous 
tint as we saw it. Wherever seen in shadow it was 
glassy and black as ebony. 

The ridge rising over Remagen is named the Victoria- 
berg, in honor of the Crown Princess of Prussia, the 
daughter of Victoria ; the sunset view from the Victoria 
Temple is described as of transcendent beauty, command- 
ing a wide expanse, and long stretches of the Rhine 
reaching north and south in graceful sinuosity. My reso- 
lution, made many years before, that when I should go 
up the Rhine I would stop at Remagen for ji week to 
make excursions into the valley of the Ahr I am forced 
to rescind ; the laws of excursions are arbitrary, and per- 
haps it is well they cannot be broken by individual prefer- 


62 


THE RHINE. 


ences ; although I believe my desires are something more 
than mere whims. 

Just before reaching Andernach we catch a glimpse 
of the railway train dying along near the river, on its 
way to Cologne ; its progress, however, does not seem so 
rapid as the express trains on the Hudson, nor the track 
so well guarded, for on the latter road there is a watchman 
stationed at every mile. Our boat, also, can bear no com- 
parison with the steam-propelled palaces of the Hudson 
and the Sound, which for elegance and magnitude have 
no parallels in any part of Europe. When within sight 
of Neuwid we saw the famed Eperler-Ley, a basaltic rock 
rising to a height of over seven hundred feet. The spec- 
tacle of a barren rock yielding delicious fruit is some- 
thing unique. Its whole surface is covered with vines 
planted in baskets, the earth constantly replaced as the 
rains wash it down the declivities. No doubt the heat 
emanating from the dark basalt is conducive to the pros- 
perity of the vine on the south and west sides. This 
absorption of heat is well understood by horticulturists, 
and in China the garden walls are painted black to antici- 
pate the slower maturity of nature. 

No matter how zealous and faithful the tourist may be, 
it is impossible to give more than a momentary glance to 
places of absorbing interest on the Rhine in the manner 
we travelled ; while localities of secondary interest one 
is forced to ignore altogether; localities which would 
have charm and interest for the leisurely tourist. 

Abreast of Neuwid our thoughts are carried to our 
beloved land so far away; its fresh-looking roofs and the 
white buildings nestling amid green gardens are quite 
New England like at this distance; its modern appear- 
ance is in striking contrast to the neighboring antiquity 
of Andernach. And there is every evidence of the content 
and prosperity of the majority of American towns at the 
North in and around Neuwid. No less pleasant is it to 


MORAVIAN WOMEN. 


fi,3 

note the Christian amity in which the disciples of such 
varied faiths dwell here, children of one Father. The 
Protestants are in the majority. The Moravian women, 
in their neat robes, with white neckerchiefs covering their 
bosoms, so easily distinguished from the maids, who wear 
red and blue ribbons, remind me of our Shakers. The 
environs of Neuwid are composed of fertile orchards, 
meadows and vineyards, which were clothed in all the lux- 
uriance of midsummer. Industry and thrift are as per- 
fectly indicated in this vicinity as in any section of our 
own land I can name. Here, from our point, you can see 
churches occupied by Catholics, Lutherans, Moravians, 
Calvinists and Jews. I doubt not the Bible Society of 
Neuwid had the new Oxford revision of the New Testa- 
ment as quick as the most zealous theologian in New 
York or Boston. 

Between the small fishing hamlet of Irlich and Neuwid 
we encounter a stench which could be nothing less than 
an importation from Hunter’s Point on the East River ; 
it was the only portion of the Rhine where the late pur- 
chases at Cologne were brought into general use. 

Our boat is now passing over that portion of the river 
which receives the waters of the Moselle, the Bride of the 
Rhine, who rushes into the arms of the tawny groom with 
such force that he would appear to be unable to hold her; 
for the bright waters from France are discerned for quite 
a distance from the confluence before they mingle with 
the darker tide of the Rhine. But it is not Hymen who 
has his worship here ; Bellona reigns. Indeed, if the god 
of war should choose an abiding place it would be at Cob- 
lenz ; it cannot be that a beseiging army could get a foot- 
hold here unless it dropped down from balloons. The 
batteries of Ehrenbreitstein, the Rhine Gibraltar, upon 
the opposite shore, command the approaches by the 
river north and south, as well as the Nassau road. The 
Mayence road is swept by the guns of Forts Alexander 


64 


THE RHINE. 


and Constantine; while the highway from Cologne and 
Treves, on the Moselle, is covered by Fort Kaiser Franz. 
When will the Prince of Peace hold undisputed sway ? 
There is something almost humiliating in the sight of 
these frowning batteries, in the midst of scenes where all 
should speak of harmony and concord with Nature. 
When the shepherds were listening to that glad song 
echoing over the hills of Bethlehem, “Peace on earth, 
good will to men,” the foundation of these fortifications 
were being laid; and never since have they ceased to 
stand a memorial of man’s lust for dominion and power. 
By the side of the same slopes that yield God’s choicest 
fruits rise the black chimneys of the foundries that forge 
the Krupp cannon and other terrible engines of war. 

From the ramparts of Ehrenbreitstein are had two 
grand vistas, the Moselle and the Rhine. Coblenz from 
this point is imposing. Palatial buildings of both antique 
and modern look, rise proudly on the bank facing the 
Rhine. A noble stone bridge with fourteen arches crosses 
the Moselle and connects Coblenz with Petersburg. 

Ehrenbreitstein is tritely compared to a couohant lion 
with its eyes fastened upon France. Everything here has 
such a martial aspect we almost unconsciously take a 
march along the steamer’s deck as we turn our faces 
southward. 


COBLENZ TO OBERWESEL* 


C OBLENZ is the half-way stopping-place between 
Cologne and Mayence. We are yet in sight of 
this Rhine Gibraltar when our boat is passing the isle 
of Oberworth, on which is a farm-house, originally occu- 
pied as a convent. The island is about one hundred and 
twenty-five acres in extent, and appears to be a rich and 
fruitful spot. Opposite this island, on the right bank, is 
situated R faff end o r f , a quiet-looking village, taking a 
summer nap in the shade of large trees, and flanked by 
orchards and vineyards. The boat stops at Capellen just 
long enough to give us a peep into the mouth of the 
river Lahn, which in the remote perspective reveals the 
wild and romantic character of its banks, beautifully 
undulating hills gradually swelling until they are lost 
in the eastern horizon. The famed and fashionable Ems 
is but a few miles up the Lahn, but which we are obliged 
to forego a visit, hoping to have an equivalent pleasure 
in our stay at Wiesbaden. 

The Castle of Lahneck looks proudly down from its 
mountain nest over the sylvan valley which Goethe so 
much loved, and which, since the completion of the rail- 
way, has been thoroughly explored by the tourist and 
artist. 

The hull of a large boat lay inverted on the shore at 
Capellen, in which some round-faced peasant children 
were playing; their staring eyes peeping out from the 
entrance to their “Peggotty Palace,” which had been 
made by digging away the sand, were irresistibly comic. 
We appear here to be in the heart of the hilly portion 
65 


66 


COBLENZ TO OBERWESEL. 


of the Rhine, which rises on both sides of the stream, 
forming the most delightful combination of earth, rock 
and verdure possible to conceive. The river is so wide 
that it has the appearance of a placid lake;, which only 
the wheels of our boat disturb, although we are contin- 
ually passing the various water craft ascending and 
descending, laden with fruit, vegetables and miscella- 
neous freight. The immense timber rafts, to which so 
many writers make allusion, did not appear in that 
portion of the stream we sailed ; they are said to have 
a decided Western or Mississippi aspect to American 
eyes. 

After leaving Brauback, as we look ahead, vve appear 
to be entering a cul de sac ; the river is completely shut 
in by a sharp and long detour it takes to the east, and 
but for a few Rhenish characteristics along the banks, 
we could easily fancy we had entered the Highland 
Hudson, especially as no outlet is visible, and the west 
bank is very similar to the Palisades, so that we here 
have two characteristics of our home river united in one 
spot on the Rhine. This detour is the most eccentric on 
the river; and as we advance, the rocks become more 
wend until the defile is positively gloomy. Upon emerg- 
ing from this circuit, where the river is more fretful and 
rough than any portion below, we are greeted with the 
sight of two tall spires rising from the town of Boppard 
at the right, a place of ancient renown, and associated 
with legends of the Knights Templars, which have been 
so beautifully embodied in the songs and romances of 
Adelaide von Stolterforth. A row of prim but stately 
poplars extends along the river in front of Boppard, and 
imparts a peculiarly quaint look to the locality,* less 
cheerful than other sections of the Rhine, but perfectly 
in harmony with the rocky bend we have just left behind. 

The view looking down stream from St. Goar is de- 
cidedly Rhenish, to which the two castles called the 


SALMON. 


67 


“ Cat and the “ Mouse ” add a picturesque outline. 
They were formerly the seats of two men who did not 
live in amity, and the “Cat” watched the “Mouse.” 
The lover of legends and ghost stories can have his 
fill in this vicinity. One of the most interesting is that 
relating to the beautiful wife of a noble at Rheinfels, 
who was murdered by poison instilled into her sacra- 
mental wine by her husband’s chaplain. For his crime 
he was publicly burnt at Cologne in 1472. Not every 
ghost story has so good foundation as the one which 
preserves the memory of the poisoned countess. 

There are not many spots on the Rhine which exceed 
for loveliness and tranquillity that lying near St. Goar on 
the left bank and St. Goarhausen directly opposite. But 
scarcely have we had opportunity to note the beauty of 
the view, both north and south, when we enter another 
defile more formidable than that above Boppard, the 
river contracting to a breadth of but nine hundred feet, 
and whirling and dashing along in a manner too much 
suggestive of the swift currents at Hell Gate before the 
late blastings. This turmoil is not wholly caused by 
the rocky foundation over which the river flows, for it 
has a fall here of about five feet to the half-mile. This 
spot is instantly recognized as one of which poets have 
sung in all ages — the home of the Loreley. The dif- 
ferent versions of the legend of the siren who lured the 
boatman into the whirlpool are too numerous to be even 
mentioned here. It is the old story of men going to 
destruction as they blindly follow the call of pleasure. 

The salmon caught in this part of the Rhine are 
esteemed for their flavor ; they are not so numerous as 
in those days when the servants of the nobles at St. 
Goar and St. Goarhausen would not engage in services 
unless they should not be compelled to eat salmon only 
every other day — a stipulation quite unnecessary now, 
as the steamboats have frightened the fish away. 


68 


COBLENZ TO OliER WESEL. 


The Castle of Schomberg — Fair Mountain — is in 
view approaching Oberwesel ; also the Jungfrausen, or 
“ Virgins,” perpetuating a poetic legend of seven lovely 
countesses of the Schomberg family. These ladies were 
so obdurate that they saw with indifference the neigh- 
boring knights much distracted by their charms ; for 
their cruelty they were changed into the seven rocks 
we see — a warning to all hard-hearted maids. Judging 
from some movements on the boat among the younger 
passengers, I think the maidens of the party will not 
deserve the fate of the stone ladies in the river. As an 
offset to this legend, we have that of Gutenfels Castle, 
which derives its name from that of a beautiful woman 
a great emperor loved. 

As we pass Oberwesel, one of the ladies on board 
resumes her sketching with industrious strokes. We 
cannot see her outlines, but are none the less assured 
the subject of her artistic labor is the noble tower of 
Ochsenthrum, which was certainly built down here by the 
river’s bank to catch the artist’s eye. Nothing could be 
more picturesque. It only lacks the ivy of Kenilworth 
or Heidelberg. The tower is a perfect stone cylinder, 
and above its battlements rises a hexagon, from which 
a magnificent panorama must be unfolded, could we but 
climb to it over the steps indicated by the small windows 
we see rising in a spiral line from the base to the summit. 

At this point a little fleet of vegetable and freight 
boats coming down from the Upper Rhine, caused a few 
moments’ delay of our boat, and as we were quite near 
the shore, afforded opportunity for a longer view of this 
interesting locality than we could otherwise have. 

During our temporary halt at Oberwesel, as the boat 
swung around in obedience to the pilot’s turn at the 
wheel, a regular Dutch sloop was brought into view. 
It looked as if it had just floated out of the canals at 
Rotterdam, and was clean enough to serve a Broek 


DUTCH MEN- WASHED WOMEN. C9 

housekeeper for a reception-room. In color it was posi- 
tively nothing short of a floating rainbow. It surely was 
the same vessel we had seen at Rotterdam moored to the 
quay, which an old man in wide breeches rolled up to the 
knees was scrubbing with such industry as made the 
deck shine like a mirror. But if this is the same craft, 
the cleaning to-day has been in another direction. Hang- 
ing upon a line stretched on the rigging, are various 
garments belonging to a sailor’s wardrobe, yet dripping 
Avith their late ablution. From their awkward arrange- 
ment, they were evidently not hung by a woman’s hands. 
The Dutch men- washer wo men probably do not take the 
pride that their German sisters are reported to do, when 
at their semi-annual washings they borrow or hire of their 
richer neighbors extra linen, in order to make a better 
display, and excite the euvy of the passer-by. 


CAUB TO BINGEN. 


T HAT class of American tourists who grumble 
because they cannot go through the Vatican and 
Louvre on a tramway, would not care to travel the Rhine 
any less rapidly than we are reluctantly forced to pass 
over it. Those whose leisure permits sometimes follow 
the carriage-road, halting at the various points of interest, 
as taste and inclination prompt. What accommodations 
they obtain at the quaint wayside inns, whose old signs 
we see here and there hanging over the riverdbank, I have 
no means of knowing; but I believe they do not enjoy much 
reputation for comfort or cleanliness; as we sail past, 
however, they lend an enhanced effect to the landscape. 
They belong to another age than ours, and appear to 
have no affinity with any locomotion besides the foot- 
wanderer, and the lumbering stage-coach; there are cen- 
turies of time between their moss-covered roofs and the 
revolutions of our boat-wheels, and the shrieks of the 
Cologne express engine. 

DicL Mr. Baedeker when he wrote of the Castle of 
Gutenfels that “ the Shoolmaster Muller at Caub has the 
keys,” imagine how quaintly that was to read to an 
American girl to whom the Rhine was as remote as 
a river in dreamland? And here before us are Caub 
and the Castle, and, possibly, the old “ Schoolmaster 
Muller.” 

One must travel far to see a prettier view than that 
made up by Caub and the Castle of Gutenfels on our left 
as we ascend, the former interesting for overlooking the 

70 


A 11 TI FILIAL li UINS. 


71 


spot where Blucher crossed the Rhine in 1814, the latter 
for its pictorial beauty, in no degree lessened by its story. 
At this castle formerly dwelt a German emperor who, 
already wedded to a lovely woman, had the misfortune to 
be smitten with a neighbor, the beautiful Countess Beatrix 
of Falkenstein. Heaven so willed it that the empress 
died, leaving the emperor to marry Beatrix ; — quite a 
parallel case to that of the lately assassinated Emperor of 
Russia and the Princess Dolgourki. 

The Pfalz, built on the Rhine in front of Caub, is the 
most nondescript structure you see during the entire 
trip ; a stone tower of not very great height, but other- 
wise huge, surrounded by lesser towers and walls. A 
capital site for a toll-house, however, the purpose for 
which it was undoubtedly constructed. It was here that 
in 840 Louis le Debonnaire turned his back upon the ennui 
of imperial sway and splendor, and laid down to die 
where the murmurs of the flowing Rhine might chant his 
requiem. 

Notwithstanding that Bacharach is christened in honor 
of Bacchus, and has done such solid service for the o-od. it 

O / 

has a respectable and sober appearance which belies its 
equivocal reputation of the elder day. Times and manners 
change; the oldest and most respectable of Massachusetts 
towns that once exported an intoxicant bearing its name 
to all the corners of the globe, is now best known as 
the seat of a prominent college. 

W as it because Beethoven was born among Rhine ruins 
that he has embodied such peculiar descriptive power in 
his “ Rums of Athens ? ” And they have even built an 
artificial ruin along the banks (at Rossel, is it?), just be- 
cause, I suppose, it was the only eligible spot on the river 
where there was not one in the natural course of things. 
To build an artificial ruin on the Rhine is something like 
sending a tub of water to Niagara. 

How much to be regretted is it that so many of our 


72 


CAUB TO BINGEN. 


Indian names of rivers and lakes have not been retained ; 
they are as poetical as many on the Rhine, such as the 
Wisper and the valley of the Wisperwind (whispering 
wind) we are now approaching, indicated by the town of 
Lorch at the mouth of the Wisper. The valley is a sort 
of a natural iEolian harp, as the wind is thought to have a 
peculiar pensive sound as it floats down from the north- 
east. 

The day was far advanced as we neared Lorch, a town 
of about two thousand inhabitants, and in a region once 
infested by fairies. Over it is the Devil’s Ladder, a lofty 
rock where a legendary hero climbed to find his inamorata 
who had been stolen by the gnomes, and hid away in the 
mountains. This was .the home of Ava, the fairy who 
invented weaving, that she might clothe her lover. An 
amusing story is told of' the sangfroid of an Englishman 
lodging at a Lorch inn, which took fire during the night. 
The host and servants pounded frantically at his door, 
while the guest hurled anathemas at them for their zeal in 
disturbing his rest for such a trivial cause. Resuming his 
sleep, the people of the inn transferred their energies to 
extinguishing the flames, which they finally accomplished. 

Ammannhausen tells us that we are now at the gate of 
the “ Garden of the Rhine,” the Rheinau. Already the 
mouth of the Nahe is in view, just as we lose sight of the 
Rhine as it takes an acute angle to the left. If possible, 
the vineyards appear more luxuriant than those below. 
Here at Ammannhausen is made, I believe, the only red 
whine in the Rhine vineyards. But of this some of our 
gentlemen coming from the dining-cabin, can give more 
reliable information. 

The people we see at the occasional landings— that is, 
the common class of the natives — are exceedingly gro- 
tesque ; many of them can only be described in Yankee 
parlance, “outlandish.” Yet I should be mindful of the 
probability that my own Leghorn flat worn in 1879 , may 


A CHARLATAN. 


73 


be no less ludicrous and mirth-suggesting to a not remote 
posterity. I seem to hear a coterie of merry girls of the 
early part of the twentieth century, screaming over the 
discovery of “ Aunt Addie’s Leghorn ” under the Mansard 
roof, for alas ! we shall have no old-style attics and gar- 
rets then. Amongst these quaintly attired groups we dis- 
cover no ideal Gretehens, although there are not lacking 
fair-skinned maids, with peach-blow cheeks, and corn- 
colored hair hanging down their backs in single and 
double strands. Not unfrequently there comes on board 
a Dutch Holland family, the heads of which have that 
solidity and rotundity seen rarely in New York outside 
of Fulton Market stalls. What would Mr. Worth do 
with one of those good dames, or the Parisian tailors with 
her husband ? 

Cologne, however, outside of Holland, is the locality 
most frequented by Dutchmen, and with the German 
river people from the Upper and Middle Rhine, add im- 
mensely to the peculiar features of life in the market 
places of the city. A party of these at Cologne, mixed 
up with a few Finlanders, gathered around a grotesque 
individual in buff breeches, red vest and black velveteen 
jacket, who was vociferously haranguing the gaping 
crowd before him. He proved to be a vendor of rat- 
catching powder, and could we but have understood the 
arguments of the charlatan, we should doubtless have 
learned that Bishop Hatto might have averted his dismal 
fate by investing in a purchase of a dozen bottles of his 
compound. 


THE RHEINAU. 



'AIR “Bingen on the Rhine!” At last, with the 


X Hon. Mrs. Norton’s poem in hand, we are in sight 
of the shore and hill ; there is the debouchement of the 
quiet Nahe, the Klopp towers, and the slope of St. Roche, 
whose groves of oak each returning August are resonant 
with the mirth and revelry of the annual fete. It Avas 
fitting that we should pass this idyllic spot just as the 
mists of twilight were veiling the little town and hiding 
the perspective of the Nahe beyond the ancient bridge; 
it was an hour of all others most suited to the character 
of the spot. There are some features of the scenery in 
this vicinity which recall the views from the Palmer 
House at Nyack-on-Hudson. 

The Rheinau ! Wdio but the painter-poet may describe 
it ! This valley, the home of the vine, extends from 
Bingen to Mayence, a distance of about twenty miles. 
Take a broad ribbon of bluish silver, and dot it with 
circlets of emerald tint, and you have the river with its 
islands — one to every half mile. The “ Bingen Hole ” 
is another Hell Gate, although, as in East River, the 
obstructions have been gradually lessened by blastings 
since 1830. 

Alluding to East River, I am reminded that the chain 
of villages and rivers along the right bank, on these 
golden miles between Bingen and Mayence, stretching like 
a chain of pearls, is of a very similar character to Astoria 
and Ravenswood, and those charming estates intervening. 
For the distances, however, to complete the home par- 


74 


C1IA EL EM A GNE. 


% 


allel, you need to take the north shore of Staten Island, 
from Clifton to Port Richmond, arid the proud heights 
along Palisade avenue at Yonkers. 

Notwithstanding the wealth of the owners of these 
Rheinau estates, their gardens ara less extensive than 
those of corresponding character in the American locality 
named ; the earth is too precious to be dedicated to 
Flora ; Pomona is the goddess in whose honor the hills 
are wreathed ; for, as I have said, this is the home of the 
vine; not the vine of Italy that grows spontaneously 
and twines its arms around the trees from whose branches 
its luscious fruit hangs in festoons and garlands, but the 
vine of commerce, as prosaic here as the potato-bed at 
home ; for grape culture in Germany is not what theoret- 
ical poetry paints it. At a little distance the fields of vine 
are not unlike an equal surface of ground covered with 
hills of growing corn. Work, stern, earnest, persistent 
work, alone brings the fruitful harvest here ; and even 
that in some seasons is rendered futile by causes beyond 
man’s control. The tobacco grower along the Connecticut 
valley meadows who has his all invested in the maturing 
crop, is not more anxious and sensitive concerning 
September frosts, than the vineyard proprietor of the 
atmosphere or elements which may rob him of his 
vintage. 

No American farmer understands the laws of cause 
and effect better than the shrewd Charlemagne did a 
thousand years ago. He had discovered from his hun- 
dred-columned portico of Eugleheim, that the snow on 
the heights of Ehrenfels melted earlier than on the 
neighboring slopes. Here, then, was the location for a 
prime vineyard. Plants were at once ordered from Bur- 
gundy and Orange ; and from that day to this the fruit- 
ful vine has never ceased to testify to the wisdom of 
Charlemagne. 

There were those among us who had made the Rheinau 


76 


THE RHEIN A U. 


the subject of special study ; to these the region was 
one of absorbing interest, and fatigue was not allowed to 
interfere with noting every point. 

Away up on the slopes lie the vineyards of Rauenthal ; 
they are on the west bank, where the sun lingers the 
livelong day, instilling into its peerless fruit that delicious 
flavor which won its wine the name of “Queen of the 
Rhine, at the late Paris Exposition. Thousands, among 
whom the writer is glad to be classed, who never use 
wine as a beverage, are, nevertheless, familiar with the 
name Hattenheiiner, from the frequency it is seen upon 
wine-cards at hotels. The vineyards of Hattenheim are 
on the side of the Taunus heights, which fall away in 
beautiful terraces towards Bingen. 

But the claims of all these brands to superiority are 
stoutly contested by the Johannisberg lords, who keep 
the national colors flying from their towers to show when 
they are at home, in emulation of royalty itself. This 
noted chateau was once a monastery, and its wine is inter- 
woven with the history of monks and priests, as are most 
of the Rhine vintages. History gives record of a mis- 
sionary monk who floated down the Rhine in a wine- 
cask, and preached from it to the fishermen when it came 
to shore. 

It may appear inconsistent for one who has long 
worked in behalf of temperance to take so much in- 
terest in the wine culture of Germany; and perhaps it 
would have been better to have devoted this attention 
to the sugar-beet culture of the empire, which is one of 
the great industries of the land, excelling the results we 
have attained in this direction at home. Some conces 
sums, however, must be made to the poetical tastes of a 
lady tourist; how can we ignore a beverage with the 
title of the “Bride of Steinberg?” Not that brides are 
rare as black swans : there are several on the boat'- 
and unless all signs fail, there maybe others by another 


J Oil A NNI SB EH G. 


77 


season recruited from the ranks of our own party. Well, 

at Hattenheim (“ Hatto’s town ”) is a very large cask 

what a paradise for coopers must Germany be ! — con- 
taining one hundred gallons of a choice brand of wine, 
which is named the “ Bride of Steinberg,” and which in 
one season sold for twenty-five hundred dollars, Not a 
very extravagant price, however, for a bride. Does it 
not remind you of the old mint-master w T ho put his 
daughter in the scales at her wedding, and balanced her 
weight with Pine Tree Shillings ? 

The Gotsenheim vineyards lie between us and Johan- 
nisberg ; they are reported to contain nearly five hundred 
different kinds of grapes. Fortunate we are so many 
weeks in advance of their maturity, and are thus spared 
having to taste so great a variety of luscious fruit. It is 
not stated if each yields a distinct brand of liquor, yet 
were it so, it is not probable the wine-tasters need any 
commiseration. 

Only sixty or seventy acres, yet what a princely reve- 
nue they yield — these slopes of Johannisberg, which are 
never out of the eyes of the sun until he goes to bed 
behind the Black Forest. And so precious are the 
grapes that they are jealous of the very birds, and the 
laborers would as soon think of entering the chateau and 
stealing some of the Metternich pearls, as to forage in 
the vineyard. There is a story told of the Rothschilds 
having once bought the Johannisberg vintage of one 
season, and closed the cellars, selling only a limited 
amount. It is natural for the world to seek what it is 
denied, and all Europe was soon wild for this wine ; not 
a royal banquet could be complete without it, and the 
entire vintage was eventually converted into an incredi- 
ble amount of gold. The fruit is allowed to remain upon 
the ground until it is nearly rotted, and is carefully 
picked up by long forks made for the purpose. As the 
vintage does not take place until November, we had no 


78 


THE RHEIN A U. 


opportunity of witnessing the festivities which attend 
it, and must take on trust the enlivening narratives of 
others. 

The vintage is looked forward to by the Rhine peas- 
antry with all the nervous anticipation of pleasure with 
which the New England boy counts the days intervening 
between the April Fast Day and the Fourth of July. 
No matter if the crop be a failure, the festivities must 
go forward all the same. 

The apple orchards we passed on the Rhine and else- 
where in Germany, looked thrifty, but the fruit did not 
appear so large and of such varied hues as our own, 
which certainly is unequaled for size and flavor. The 
distinguishing feature of the Rhenish landscape, as com- 
pared to that of England or America, is the absence of 
animal life. For a long time I knew not how to account 
for a sense of something lacking, until it became appar- 
ent that there w^ere no flocks of sheep or herds of cattle. 
More cows are to be seen in a twenty-mile drive through 
the Mohawk V alley than along the whole length of the 
Rhine. When we did see here any of these animals 
which add so largely to our comfort at home, they gave 
no satisfaction, for they were invariably yoked to the 
plough, or dragging a heavy load only fit for the ox or 
horse. 

There must be cattle in Germany, but where they are 
pastured is a query to the traveller. The fine cattle of 
Holland would contribute much to the beauty of the 
Rhine landscape. 

The view, from the deck, of the right bank of the 
Rheinau on the north side was unique. The evening 
-was sufficiently advanced to give a peculiarly novel effect 
to the almost continuous villages and terraced slopes as 
we passed. Small gardens, with vine-draped pavilions, 
extend to the water’s edge, and back of which we see 
lights twinkling in villas and the cottages of the vine- 


Fit A UENLOB. 


79 


dresser. Here is a marine wall of stone, whose founda- 
tion is washed by the current, which fences in a noble 
property, and over which hang luxuriant foliage and 
vines, their long tendrils dallying with the swift-rolling 
stream. The island of Rheinau, no doubt a little parcu 
dise by day, is dark and silent as we glide past. More 
animated is the shore of Eltville, with its gay-lit mansions, 
the favorite retreat of wealthy families. 

A straggling row of lights outlines the long street of 
Winkel, at one extremity of which Goethe once dwelt in 
the summer residence of a citizen of Frankfort, and where 
he received the letters of Bettina mentioned in the “Cor- 
respondence of a Child.” The summer home of Robert 
von Hornstein, who composes here his charming melodies, 
is pointed out, but we can distinguish nothing save a mass 
of black foliage to locate the nest of this songster. 

I had supposed we were to land at Mayence, but the 
terminus of the trip is at Biebrich, a few miles west of 
Mayence ; thus we are deprived of a visit to the ancient 
and interesting city and its cathedral containing the mon- 
ument of Count Henry von Meissen, surnamed Frauenlob, 
which signifies he sung “the praise of woman.” 

“We shall land in ten minutes!” is the message that 
goes from one end of the boat to the other, repeated in 
half a dozen languages. Books, satchels and wraps are 
hastily gathered up, and in about the same order as the 
animals entered the ark, we file out upon the landing at 
Biebrich. 

Biebrich Castle is a long, somewhat low structure of red- 
dish stone, which quite recently was staked by its princely 
owner, and lost at a single throw at the gaming-table. 
Its site is finely placed at the base of the Taunus range, 
which falls away to the west, far as the eye can reach, in 
undulating perspective. Between the castle and the river 
is an avenue, shaded by a double row of thrifty trees, 
which by day must be the most charming of promenades. 


80 


THE EIIE IN A U. 


From this esplanade you command the Johannisberg height 
and the whole Rheinau perspective. Americans familiar 
with the sylvan loveliness of Hampstead harbor, on Long 
Island, will discover a corresponding beauty here in the 
undulating contour of the hills on the north shore of the 
Rheinau. 

Although we afterwards had distant glimpses of the 
Rhine, from Heidelberg castle and other points at Biebrich, 
we felt that we were taking our long farewell of a stream 
never more to be forgot. 


HOURS AT WIESBADEN. 


U PWARDS of twenty carriages were used in trans- 
porting our party from Biebrich landing to Wies- 
baden, four miles beyond. We bad to run the gantlet of 
a group of idlers surrounding the carriages, and whose 
appearance was the most unprepossessing of any crowd 
we saw in Germany. 

The night drive to Wiesbaden was through foliage- 
lined streets, and over roads where the grand old trees 
met over our heads, shutting out the star-lit sky beyond. 
The carriage we occupied was about in the middle of the 
line, and in the ascent of the hills the lights of the car- 
riages in advance disappear around the winding road, 
while those behind were seen like the links of a huge glit- 
tering serpent. The air was as fresh and cool as a Sep- 
tember morning, and despite our long boat trip from 
Cologne it was impossible not to experience an elasticity 
of spirits resulting from the novel scenes through which 
we were passing. Never before do I recollect of hearing 
birds sing in groves at night ; possibly they were awakened 
by the crackings of the whips of our drivers, an art they 
appear to have acquired to perfection, and which can be 
compared to nothing but the early Fourth of July morn- 
ing explosions of Chinese fire-crackers in a Yankee village. 
In this style we continued our night march on Wiesbaden, 
whose fashionable guests were probably little dreaming of 
such an approaching army of invaders from the far West. 

Suddenly there comes a halt; the carriages in advance, 
one by one, by some mysterious agency, stand motionless 

81 


82 


HOURS AT WIESBADEN. 


in the middle of the road ; those in the rear, by the natu- 
ral inability to proceed, are equally inert. 

“ Who’s hurt ? ” 

44 What is it? ” 

44 Do get out, George, and see what the matter is.” 

44 1 wish we had waited at Biebrich until morning.” 

Such are some of the exclamations of the party, whose 
heads are popping in and out of the vehicles. 

44 The mountain quaked and forth came a mouse ; ” the 
Jehu of the first carriage had halted at a wayside inn for 
a glass of lager beer ! 

Again we are in motion, and slowly the cdrtege files 
past the inn, whose doors and windows are filled with big 
round faces of men and women who have evidently 
thrived on the sale, or consumption, of the beverage 
which was the cause of our late detention. How they 
stared, straining their short necks in order to see the 
head and rear of the procession at the same glance. 
Wbuld not a party of equal numbers of French or Ger- 
man tourists, riding along the moonlit Hudson, be no less 
a spectacle to the villagers by the wayside ? 

By half past-ten we were seated at our dinner at the 
Hotel Victoria, from which we did not rise until mid- 
night — extravagant hours for such plain republicans. 
There was not another day of our tour which is equally 
memorable as that spent between Cologne and Wiesbaden. 
The next morning finds us up at five, at which hour 
a refreshing bath at the hot springs was enjoyed. What 
a boon would that same bath have been a few weeks 
later, when blinded and crazed with the dust between 
Rome and Naples ! 

It would be difficult to select a site for a mountain 
summer resort to equal that of Wiesbaden. On the south 
slope of the Taunus, in a region of gardens, the earth car- 
peted with richest verdure, beneath which is generated in 
Nature’s crucible the medicinal waters which are a pana- 


THE WORLD’S SANS-SOUCI . 


83 


cea for many of the ills to which the human system is 
subject. The Taunus is no stripling; at Filberg it is 
three thousand feet above the sea, and it borders the 
Rhine, the Lahn and the Main for a hundred miles. Even 
in the populated region around Wiesbaden we can see it 
has thick woods and forests which have all the wildness 
of the mountain valleys in the vicinity of the White Hills 
in New Hampshire. At Frankfort there is a Taunus 
Club, upon the same principle as the Alpine, which makes 
annual excursions into the remoter parts. 

Wiesbaden is the world’s Sans-souci. The horn of 
plenty overflows here ; and it has no little end. Disease 
and pain are here, as elsewhere, but every comfort which 
wealth can provide to mitigate their power is on all sides. 
The gambler no longer curses this Eden, at least to the 
outer eye, although it is probable there are sumptuous 
haunts within the town where the practice still prevails. 
The croakers who foretold that if the authorities pro- 
hibited gambling at Wiesbaden the place would lose its 
prestige and decline, were refuted by an increased pros- 
perity. No sooner was the disreputable bane removed, 
than wealthy families moved hither, and the population 
has increased annually until it has become a cosmopolitan 
city of forty thousand. The gayety of Saratoga, the 
“dash ” of Long Branch, and the brilliancy of Newport, 
are all merged into the daily life of Wiesbaden. A visit 
to the Cursaal in the evening is like taking a page out of 
the “ Arabian Nights ; ” music, fireworks, illuminated foun- 
tains, combine to minister to the amusement of thirty 
thousand tourists who gather here each summer from all 
parts of the globe. It is quite excitement enough for our 
sober tastes to sit within a sheltered arbor upon the margin 
of the lake, and watch the kaleidoscopic scene ; the end- 
less procession of brilliant toilets past the flower-beds, 
past the clusters of the trumpet-tree, with its lily-like 
blossoms, hanging like floral candelabrum, and upon 


84 


HOURS AT WIESBADEN. 


which falls the soft glow of crimson, blue, and golden 
tints from colored lamps. 

On the lake, fairy gondolas are darting to and fro, 
between which glide stately white swans with an aristo- 
cratic air, as if disdaining to display visible agency of 
motion. 

The Paunus road, beyond the Cursaal, affords a 
charming walk or drive; from it you have a view of 
the Paulina Palace, until lately the residence of the 
widowed Duchess of Nassau, of which principality Wies- 
baden is the gem; Its Alhambra-like towers rise above 
rich gardens and groves upon a gentle eminence. In 
another part of the environs we see the Greek Chapel, 
or rather that portion which is not concealed by inter- 
vening groves of chestnuts and limes ; it is a conspicuous 
landmark from its architecture, so novel after the Gothic 
ruins of the Rhine. Quite a good idea may be had of 
this chapel roof by placing the blue and gold Russian 
dome of the Colt factory, below Hartford, upon the 
cupola of the New 1 ork City Hall, then transfer that 
to the centre of the Art Memorial building at Philadel- 
phia, with a smaller dome of the same pattern, at a less 
height, at each corner. The effect is decidedly Oriental ; 
it was not until we reached Venice we saw anything so 
suggestive of Constantinople. 

I wish I could send all the nil admirari people to the 
grove on the Neroberg, which overlooks the Nero valley 
and A iesbaden ; if, after an hour’s study of the scene 
spread before them, they do not throw off their stoical 
indifference, they are indeed incorrigible. I did not visit 
Windsor Forest, but it can have no nobler oaks, and I am 
not sure but Herne, the hunter, was not an emigrant 
from the Neroberg. The green upon the moist meadows 
of England is not more vivid than that we tread here in 
the latter part of a hot July. Although it will be six 
weeks before the vineyards attain anything like maturity, 


TITIAN’S GARDEN PARTY. 


85 


they already tell Avhat will be the glory of the vintage, 
when 

— “the showering grapes 
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 

Purple and gushing.” 

That nothing should be lacking here to fill the eye, 
that most picturesque of crops, the hop-vine, is seen con- 
verting sightless poles into spires of lovely verdure, and 
hanging in graceful garlands from the boughs of many a 
tree. From the Neroberg we have a nearer view of the 
Greek Chapel, upon a portion of which it is built. It 
was erected in 1846, by the Duke, in memory of his wife 
who died the previous year ; she was a Russian princess, 
which accounts for the Russian-Greek style of the beau- 
tiful memorial. The road from Wiesbaden to Mosbach, 
the village which adjoins Biebrich, is lined with four 
rows of superb horse-chestnuts. If there are any oppo- 
nents to the tree-planting societies which 'are on the 
increase in various parts of our land, let them ride from 
Wiesbaden to Mosbach, over this road, and “ forever after 
hold their peace.” 

Let us not leave the gem of the Taunus, the “ City of 
Idlers,” without a glance at the children who form so 
conspicuous a feature of life at Wiesbaden. Spoiled pets, 
as I fear they are, the offspring of butterfly mothers, 
they nevertheless charm us by their inborn elegances and 
graces. I was continually reminded of Titian’s garden 
party at Venice, when he invited all the children of his 
noble acquaintances to assemble at his garden. Here 
rare gifts were presented them ; costly banquets were 
spread for their entertainment ; the fairest maid was 
crowned Queen of the Flowers, while delicious music 
floated out from unseen balconies over the heads of the 
sylphs dancing beneath umbrageous trees. From a win- 
dow of his palace, Titian watched the pastoral scene, 


86 


HOURS AT WIESBADEN. 


storing in memory each expression of joy and delight 
which illumined the faces of his little guests, and which 
were to live again in the countenances of cherubs and 
angels upon his immortal canvas. 

Here at Wiesbaden, after the morning bath, when the 
elders have retired for a siesta, an artist might have a 
similar opportunity for the study of child-joy among 
these human pinks and roses, with here and there a lily 
so delicate as to give rise to the fear that an autumnal 
frost would wither it. Yet our admiration is checked 
with the thought of the probable future of girls reared 
amid scenes of such gayety as these; the lovely bloom 
of childhood robbed of its delicate freshness by constant 
publicity which is so destructive to the purity of “ chil- 
dren of larger growth.” The moralizer need go no 
further than the parlors of fashionable American hotels 
to realize the truth of this. 

I have nothing but eulogy to write of the Wiesbaden 
baths; the effect is in the highest degree invigorating, 
and I doubt if the buoyancy of the Dead Sea is any 
greater, for it seemed literally impossible to sink. Fortu- 
nately, I had no occasion to test the remedial virtues 
of the Springs, but which I feel assured are great ; the 
water is so nauseous from being so hot that it is neces* 
sary to allow it time to cool before it can be drank. I 
could not imbibe enough of it to ascertain if it tastes 
like chicken-soup, as some have claimed. 

An idea may be had of the antiquity of the Wies- 
baden Springs from the fact that a work was published 
concerning them more than two centuries ago. 

There were probably in the year of our visit, 1879, 
forty thousand visitors. The number who also make it 
a winter resort, increases each season, and which includes 
many English and American families. 

lo enumerate the various springs of Wiesbaden and 
vicinity, with the properties of their waters, would be 


A LITTLE EDEN. 


87 


equivalent to writing a pharmacopoeia. Nassau boasts 
that no other equal surface of the globe contains waters of 
such remedial virtues, each a panacea, it is claimed, for 
some special disease. About ten years ago the bath at 
Schlangenbad attained great popularity. The Springs 
are eight in number, and flow at the base of one of the 
highest ridges of the Taunus. 

The natural loveliness of the spot, the shady approach 
from Wiesbaden, its seclusion, the facilities for undis- 
turbed recreation and exercise in the adjoining forests, 
and the excellent accommodations at the baths, com- 
bined at that time to make it a little republic sacred to 
women of nervous temperament. 

But this little Eden is such in a very litei al sense ; for 
in the neighboring woods are found snakes of the same 
species that annoy one at Heidelberg, and which may be 
the cause of nervous ladies having abandoned their claim 
to the exclusive use of Schlangenbad (literallv Serpent 
Bed). Let me have the candor to confess that these 
woods are not altogether free from hornets, and the quick 
darting dragon-fly which I more enjoy examining in an 
entomological cabinet than in their native lairs. 


HEIDELBERG UNIVERSITY. 


NARROW plateau above the Neckar. Here is 



built the town, backed by hills some German re- 
turning emigrants have carried home from their American 
settlements — at least, they look very much like old 
acquaintances of the New England and Middle States. 
Wh reached our hotel about an hour before sunset, just 
tired enough to welcome any accommodation that prom- 
ised a tolerable rest. The town of Heidelberg is one 
long street, from which radiate gloomy lanes and thorough- 
fares. Nothing more opposite to the brand-new appear- 
ance of an American town could be conceived. Remove 
the students and tourists, Heidelberg would be quiet as 
Pompeii. There is a very lively population, however, 
m the gymnasium. We visited the church of the Holy 
Ghost, in which the Catholics and Lutherans worship, 
only separated by a partition— a tolerance rarely seen in 
either hemisphere. 

In the evening, our conductor, Mr. Crunden, procured 
a piano, and had it placed in the parlor of the hotel, and 
those of the party who were so inclined, had an oppor- 
tunity of enjoying a waltz to German music on German 
soil, while others found more congenial pastime in an 
evening ramble along the Neckar. On our arrival we 
had been informed opportunity would be had to have 
washing done; from our experience I should hesitate to 
recommend the German laundresses, especially those of 
Heidelberg; when our pieces were returned, it was a 
question if they had passed through any cleaning process ; 


88 


GERMAN WASH-DAYS. 


89 


but the exorbitant charges left no doubt but that our 
property had passed through the hands of the proprietors. 
In the kitchen and laundry the Germans must never be 
mentioned with the French. The proverb that “The 
German feeds, but the Parisian dines,” is a trite one. It 
is said many housekeepers in Germany boast of having 
but two wash-days in the year, which is enough to make 
all the aunt Ophelias of New England exclaim: “How 
shiftless ! ” Such a custom £iay imply a very large ward- 
robe, but there is something indescribably repugnant to the 
American matron in the imaginary contemplation of a 
pile of soiled household linen, the accumulation of six 
months. The recollection of this somewhat checked the 
admiration which otherwise we should have felt for the 
picturesque effect the women and girls washing clothes in 
the Neckar gave to the landscape. 

Some geographers have estimated that nearly three 
thousand streams, great and small, are absorbed by the 
Rhine, between St. Gothard and the sea. Of these there 
can be none more lovely than the Neckar, which, for 
the entire distance we saw, flows through a natural 
garden. 

The University dominates Heidelberg as Harvard does 
Cambridge, and the local pride in the institution is unmis- 
takable. I do not see how society here can be otherwise 
than charming. 

There is said to be a small garden-house at Heidelberg, 
built out of the scaffold upon which Karl Sand, the mur- 
derer of Kotzebue, was decapitated at Mannheim. The 
executioner came from Heidelberg, and as the scaffold 
was his perquisite, he removed it to his native city. 
There were some features of this assassination of a 
parallel character to the attack on President Garfield; 
although the murderer of Kotzebue was immeasurably 
the superior of the wretch at Washington. I was not 
sorry to miss the executioner’s garden-house, nor the 


90 


HEIDELBERG UNIVERSITY. 


residence of Kotzebue at Mannheim, where the blood- 
stains are reported to be still visible after the repeated 
ablutions the walls have had since their owner died in his 
daughter’s arms, in 1819. In all his numerous tragedies, 
could he have conceived a more dreadful end than that of 
his own ? How frequently do we have occasion to realize 
that the true incidents of life exceed in tragic horror the 
creations of fiction. 

For beauty of location and surroundings, Heidelberg 
University is not surpassed by any similar institution 
on the Continent, although I believe the student who 
desires to avoid exciting influences, w r ould be better 
placed at Bonn. Architecturally, the University has little 
to boast, the building devoted to anatomy having the 
most claim. The library is very rich, containing one 
hundred and fifty thousand volumes, rare manuscripts, and 
other bibliographical treasures, including a translation of 
Isaiah by Luther, and in his own hand; portraits of 
Luther and his wife may be seen in the palace of Fred- 
erick IV. at the Castle. The University was founded in 
1386, and at once the glory of learning illumined a region 
already lustrous for its imperial splendor and natural 
beauty. The duel-ground, of which so much has been 
said and written, is a secluded spot, as accessible as 
Hoboken, the scene of similar encounters in the Hamilton- 
Burr days. There are not wanting those who stoutly 
defend this barbarous custom of slashing and cutting 
the human form divine beneath the walls of a Christian 
university. 

In justice to the faculty at Heidelberg, it should be 
mentioned that the evil has been recognized and exertion 
made to suppress it, but without avail. Let those who 
are not willing to admit it is an evil, stand by the tear- 
watered graves in the cemetery at Bonn, which cover the 
youthful students who have been killed in duels. I do 
not think this matter has received the American protest 


A NOTORIOUS EVIL. 


91 


it deserves. In 1864 there were forty young Americans 
studying at Heidelberg; therefore, we have an interest 
beyond mere sentiment in a custom which has long since 
fallen under the ban in our own country. It would be 
a good service if some of our public men, who are well- 
informed concerning German University life, could bring 
this thing home to the people. In the month of J une, 
1881, the United States Minister at Berlin, stood before 
an assemblage in that city, and boasted that it was not 
to England that Americans sent their sons to acquire a 
higher culture than their own institutions afford, but to 
Germany. Had he no rebuke for this notorious evil ? I 
cannot answer for German mothers, but I know not any 
in my own country who desire their boys to acquire 
manliness by the practice of brutality. It seems incred- 
ible that when the dawn of the twentieth century is ready 
to burst over the horizon, that bull-lights in Spain and 
duels at Heidelberg are the few customs which remain to 
blot the record of civilization and humanity. 

The life of the Heidelberg students is not sombre ; the 
neighboring villages and picnic grounds on the Neckar 
are. made lively in their hours of recreation; their gay- 
colored caps are seen flitting through the castle woods 
like the plumage of swift-winged birds; they roam 
through the Schwetzingen garden, flinging rose-leaves in 
the silvery cascade that runs away from the cupids and 
dolphins sculptured around the temple of Apollo; their 
oars drop liquid pearls into the Neckar ; for them the 
golden wine rises to the goblet’s brim and they quaff 
it to the dregs. This is outside life. We know that the 
students of Harvard and Yale are not always singing 
college songs upon the green. 

Since our visit to Heidelberg, the first admission of 
a woman to the Berlin University has been recorded. 
She is under the special tuition of Professor Virchow, a 
famous scholar. The fact that this woman is an Ameri- 


92 


HEIDELBERG UNIVERSITY. 


can has a special significance in connection with forces 
at work in some of our leading universities, and which 
foreshadow the end. Yet, what can women of the nine- 
teenth century do more than to recover the ground she 
held in Spain and Italy three centuries ago ? It is not 
necessary to cite the histories of Lucia de Mendrano, 
Veronica Gambara and Cassandra Fidelis. Nor is Heidel- 
berg itself lacking in evidence, as the tomb in St. Peter’s 
of Olympia Morata will show; she who combined the 
intellect of Margaret Fuller with the charms of Ariadne. 

It affords some amusement to see the various members 
of our party return from a half-day ramble amid such 
rural haunts as abound around Heidelberg ; the ladies 
usually loaded with floral trophies gathered by the way. 
The gentlemen have an eye for color ; and although there 
is a large delegation of the unmarried, not one seems 
disposed to advertise his loneliness by placing the horn 
Uume in the button-hole of his coat ; for under this local 
name do we recognize our old friend of Yankee flower- 
gardens, “ bachelor’s-button.” I believe the English call 
it “ ragged-robin.” Here are half a dozen English lads 
just up from the cool Wolfsbrunnen, in ecstacies over 
the trout which are plentiful there as figs in a drum. 
The children tourists in Europe would alone make a 
great army. Many are in charge of tutors and govern- 
esses who appear to enjoy the tour with as much zest 
as their pupils. The educational advantages of such early 
travel ought to be rich in results. 

It may seem a trifling circumstance to record here, 
nevertheless the reception at Heidelberg of the first New 
York papers we had seen since leaving England, was 
the cause of more delight than would be credited, save by 
those who have been similarly deprived of home intelli- 
gence. It is really quite exasperating to see how our great 
nation is ignored by the European daily press. The mar- 
riage of a German grand duke, whose principality would be 


THE EUROPEAN AND AMERICAN PRESS. 93 

swallowed up in a single county of New York, will elicit 
columns of comment, when the affairs of a nation of fifty 
million people, who are exercising the mightiest influence 
upon the world since the Romans under the Emperors, are 
dismissed with a single paragraph. I admit that there 
is a certain scholarly dignity in the London press which 
forms a striking contrast to the license of our own ; 
but in enterprise, vivacity and entertainment, the Ameri- 
can press is, and must ever be, far in advance of that 
of Europe. 


HEIDELBERG CASTLE. 


RE not the pleasures of retrospection almost as 



il great as the primal enjoyment? No lapse of time 
can ever eradicate the visit to this most beautiful ruin of 
Europe. The recollections of those red-letter days upon 
the Rhine and Neckar rise up before nje so tangible that 
I can scarcely realize two summers have gone since I was 
in Germany. 

Heidelberg Castle and adjuncts, ruins as they are; 
interest more than the most sumptuous abodes of living 
royalty. Where may we look to find nature and art 
more happily wedded? In the groves of the Neckar, 
Shakespeare might have written “As You Like It;” on 
those grand old trees Orlando might have hung his love- 
revealing couplets. Ah! those Heidelberg woods. The 
most idyllic effect beneath yon sheltering canopies : the 
mossy earth you tread spangled with silver patches of 
light ; the murmur of babbling brooks, chiding the tiny 
boulders that impede their way to the sun-bathed Jseekar ; 
gentle slopes carpeted with ferns and herbs which diffuse 
sweet perfume. 

Stealing away from my companions, I wandered alone 
through these Arcadian woods. An inexpressible feeling 
of repose and content fell on my heart. It was a dream 
of my early childhood revived and embodied ; and yet so 
much a dream that I found myself pinching my arm to 
realize if I were indeed awake in this every-day world. 
Just below me was the Wolfsbrunnen (the Wolf’s Well) 
the reputed haunt of a gypsy fortune-teller who had been 

94 


THE GERMAN ALHAMBRA. 


95 


torn in pieces by a wolf. It was no wonder that in these 
woods the vision of Little Red Riding-Hood returned; 
the gypsy was her grandmother. And, yonder is the 
grassy knoll where the robins covered the Children in the 
Wood with the leaves they had brought in their tiny 
beaks ; and surely, from that arch in the crumbling tower 
we see through the long perspection of oaks, stole forth 
the cruel uncles on their murderous errand. Great as are 
the afflictions of after life, can any sorrows equal those we 
experience in childhood over fictitious woe ? There is no 
cynicism, no materialism, no pessimism in children. God 
makes the child ; the world makes the man and woman. 

We speak of the Castle of Heidelberg and there* is 
called up to the untravelled a single majestic pile. It is 
really a square of palaces of widely different dates, em- 
bodying centuries of grandeur, epitomes of history, the 
home of the emperors from the time of Rudolf. Although 
the origin of the Castle dates so late as the thirteenth cen- 
tury, to one unfamiliar with its history it appears to be 
the meeting-ground of Pantheism and Christianity. David 
looks benignly down from his ivy-vined niche on the 
colossal Hercules ; the Christian Graces smile upon the 
heroes and heroines of mythology. For nearly six centuries 
have portions of these noble walls stood a target for the 
lightning’s bolt and the artillery of man. But war and 
time have been powerless to annihilate the work of the 
electors. The statues which stand headless, some with 
only the torso, around which the pitying ivy weaves a 
veil as if to hide the terrible wounds, are the type of the 
main structure ; for, although portions appear as if com- 
pletely undermined, ready to fall to the earth at the slight- 
est agitation, the grand fa 5 ades still proudly look down on 
the wondering tourist who feels that he has but two more 
ambitions to be consummated : to stand at Granada before 
the Alhambra, and to view the ruins of Baalbec from the 
heights of the Lebanon. 


96 


HEIDELBERG CASTLE. 


Each succeeding elector must have vied with his pred- 
ecessor in exhausting every device for effect in stone. 
The portal of the palace built by Otto Henry would alone 
repay for a visit over the Atlantic. No wonder its purity of 
style and elegance of proportion are attributed to Michael 
Angelo. Kenilworth without its Caesar’s Ivy and the 
romance thrown over it by Scott, would have little to 
excite enthusiasm; in Heidelburg Castle, history, art and 
architecture unite to form a picture in stone upon which 
the scholar, the poet, and the artist may never tire to 
linger.* 

As I am not writing a history, it will not answer for me 
to take the reader through the towers, some twenty feet 
thick, along the battlements, into balconies and subter- 
ranean vaults, under massive portals, through vast halls 
and corridors, beneath gateways leading into courts from 
which you see no egress, courts into which fair ladies in 
gold brocades looked down from their medallion-crowned 
windows upon their noble lords clad in glittering armor. 
Alas, what is glory! The very names of the mighty 
ones are unknown but to the antiquary and scholar. 
All that is mortal of them could be held in a baby’s 
hand. Do not these crumbling stones, these Titanic walls 
men vainly thought to be impregnable, teach that only 
One is eternal? How forcibly do the meditations of 
Volney upon the plains of Syria, come to mind. He sits 
gazing upon the fallen pillars of Palmyra and exclaims : 
“ Good God ! from whence proceed such melancholy 
revolutions? For what cause is the fortune of these 
countries so strikingly changed? Why are so many 
cities destroyed? Why is not the ancient population 
reproduced and perpetuated?” I wandered over the 


* I do not know if the magnificent exteriors of the Castle have been re- 
produced in lithography, the only art that could adequately copy them. 
They will be found elegantly engraved in the folio entitled, “Monographic 
Du Chateau Heidelberg,’’ Paris. 1859. 


LUTHERS HYMN. 


97 


country ; I traversed the provinces ; I enumerated the 
kingdoms of Damascus, and I dreamed of Jerusalem and 
Samaria. “ This Syria,” said I to myself, “ now almost 
depopulated, then contained a hundred flourishing cities, 
and abounded with towns, villages and hamlets. What 
is become of so many productions of the hands of man ? 
What is become of those ages of abundance and of life? ” 

Did the prophecy “For I will destroy your high 
places,” “The palaces shall be forsaken,” recur to the 
doubter, who in his meditations was unconsciously ful- 
filling a prophecy uttered by the inspired writer thou- 
sands of years before he was born ? 

What admirable use has Keith made of this remarkable 
incident in connection with the prophecy : “ The genera- 
tion to come of your children that shall rise up after you 
and the stranger that shall come from a far land, shall 
say when they see the plagues of that land, and the sick- 
ness which the Lord hath laid upon it, wherefore hath 
the Lord done this unto the land ? What meaneth the 
heat of this great anger ? ” 

To the reflective mind, Heidelberg Castle is literally 
“ a sermon in stone.” Where could Luther’s grand old 
hymn, “ A strong Castle is our Lord,” be sung by pious 
voices with such appropriateness as before these roofless 
walls, the mightiest ruin of the empire. that gave him 
birth ? 

Captivating as are the rambles through the interior, 
at any glimpse I caught from the windows of the shaded 
walks, I was tempted to follow them at once, they so 
eloquently suggested groves where the light of day in 
summer finds feeble entrance ; delightful refuge from the 
sunny slopes now hazy with the midsummer’s heats. 

Before we leave the quadrangle, the tower built by 
Frederick V., King of Bohemia, in honor of his wife, 
Princess Elizabeth, granddaughter of Mary, Queen of 
Scots, became the object of special attention for our 


98 


HEIDELBERG CASTLE . 


Boston friends ; not only for its romantic associations, 
but for the beauty of its design. We had so lately left 
the rooms at Holyrood, once occupied by Mary Stuart, 
whose misfortunes will ever perpetuate her memory, that 
a memorial of her near descendant was invested with 
an interest it might not otherwise have claimed. Her 
marriage with Frederick was auspiciously celebrated at 
the court of her father, James I. of England. At Heidel- 
berg the regal couple were received with acclamations, 
and entertained by gorgeous pageants. Young, beautiful, 
gifted, surrounded with luxurious splendor, she might, 
but for her ambition, have here enjoyed as happy a life 
as mortal need attain. In an unfortunate hour the crown 
of Bohemia was offered her husband, who hesitated to 
accept it. But the blood of the Stuarts was aroused, and 
Elizabeth had no word but this: “I would rather eat dry 
bread at a king’s table, than to feast at the board of an 
elector.” She died a pensioner upon charity. 

To the lover of ruins, Heidelberg Castle is positively 
enchanting. Those who desire to see it in its present 
picturesque decay, must be expeditious, for there is a 
proposal made to restore it in all its original architectural 
splendor. One of the paths from the town leads directly 
into the garden of the Castle, which was laid out in 1804, 
but chiefly remarkable for its magnificent views of the 
town and environs. I have seen an excellent engraved 
representation of the ancient garden as it appeared in 
1G20, which shows more beauty and elegance than that 
of to-day. The garden-terrace is a point much sought 
for by tourists; it constitutes a fine promenade, with a 
prospect of the most attractive part of the Castle. The 
entrance to the vault containing the renowned Heidelberg 
Tun, is a huge portal in the substructure of Frederick’s 
palace ; as you descend the steps, you are watched by 
grand statues of the great ones of Germany, from that of 
Charlemagne to the last of the sixteen Electors. The 


A VENTURESOME YOUTH. 


99 


Tun looks like a section of the huge tower outside, which 
is eighty-two feet in diameter, and which all the powder 
of the French failed to wholly prostrate in 1689 . You 
have no reason to doubt the guide’s story that the Tun 
holds a third of a million bottles of wine; you would 
as soon question the capacity of the Croton reservoir. 
The gigantic hogshead lies upon its side, a flight of steps 
leading to the platform built over it, which affords space 
for a large dancing party. A venturesome youth of our 
party entered the cask, and when satisfied with his savory 
explorations, attempted to emerge through the bung ; his 
progress was arrested by the mischievously inclined, who 
kept him in durance until he earnestly plead to he released. 
One of the scholars considered it a capital opportunity 
to extort a confession of the state of his affections for 
in vino veritas. 

The preference of the views from the Castle, I give to 
that unfolded from the “Altar,” or great balcony, in the 
palace of Frederick, which commands the valley of the 
Keckar to the north; hut for our farewell prospect of a 
region which none should explore too thoroughly unless 
prepared to settle down there “under their own vine 
and fig-tree,” let us ascend the old stone steps, through 
the interstices of which green grass and blue violets peep 
out, to the road lined with grand chestnuts leading to the 
Molkeneur, or “Whey Cure,” nearly three hundred feet 
above the earth ; and in consequence affording the sight 
of a broad territory. Still, it is not until another mile is 
climbed to the tower on the “ Kaiserstuhl,” nearly a 
thousand feet above the castle, that one has attained the 
real outlook at Heidelberg. Here the valleys of the 
Rhine and Neckar, the dense forests of the Odenwald, 
the Taunus range, the Black Forest, and the garden lands 
of Germany, are spread out with all the distinctness of a 
map in relief ; to the south, the view is not lost until the 
eye rests on the dim spire of Strasburg. 


100 


HEIDELBERG CASTLE. 


Reader, if you are not weary of Heidelberg, come up 
to the “ King’s Seat ” with us on that midsummer after- 
noon. Is it not a picture of warmth, peace, and serenity ? 
Truly, a golden picture, for there is a strata of burnished 
gold and purple in the already half-ripened corn mingling 
with the green of the more tardy husks. The sunbeams, 
softened by haze, fall gently on the red castle towers, 
which throw their lengthened shadows far down the 
grassy slopes. White and cream butterflies make their 
erratic flights from bush and shrub. The “ drowsy hum” 
of bees mingles with the chirp of unseen field insects. 
Here and there are patches of color so bright and 
varied that one might fancy there was a neighboring 
factory that here laid out to bleach its calicoes, gay-dyed, 
in imitation of Joseph’s coat. These are the poppy 
fields, similarly cultivated in Yankee gardens of the 
olden time. 

Was it because we had so recently received news from 
hom£, combined with so many home elements in the 
landscape — the corn-fields and orchards — that a symptom 
of that depressing disease, nostalgia , assailed us here on 
the heights of Heidelberg? The view, divested of its 
architectural features, and more Southern luxuriance, is not 
unlike that from Mt. Tom, looking over the Northampton 
and Deerfield meadows, save that the Neckar takes an 
acute angle in lieu of the more graceful contour of the 
Connecticut’s ox-bow. Both views are noticeable for the 
absence of the unsightly wooden fences which so often 
in our own land mar the otherwise beautiful expanse 
of field, upland, and meadow. From this outlook we 
have our parting view of the Rhine which flashes along 
the west and south horizon like a chain of silver lakes — 
the intervening spaces lost in its circuitous flow. But 
who may have the temerity to write a farewell to this 
theme of song after the adieu of Childe Harold ! 


SOUTHERN GERMANY. 


UR first halt after leaving Heidelberg was at Stutt- 



gart, pleasantly located at the base of lofty hills, 
two miles from the Neckar, by which the city has commu- 
nication with the Rhine. Take a saucer, break off one- 
third of the rim, place Stuttgart in the centre, and you 
have a topographical idea of the city and environs. 

M^e visited the Royal Library, rich in books and con- 
taining a cabinet of rare medals, nearly twenty thousand 
in number. A colossal statue of Schiller, designed by 
Thorwaldsen, testifies to the universal admiration the 
Germans have for their great poet. A brief ride brought 
us to the summer palace of the king, the most perfect 
and regal residence we saw in Germany; the various 
halls and saloons are finished in light, yet magnificent 
Moorish style, and the windows vie with the most admir- 
able paintings ; they contain flowers so exquisitely drawn 
and colored upon the glass that you involuntarily declare 
that they are growing outside the windows, in the gar- 
dens beyond; yet when you enter the gardens, you find 
exotics of such extraordinary beauty that no art could 
copy. W e spent several hours in these gardens ; and I 
had a kindred sympathy with one of the young ladies 
who wished she might be left behind. I think we all 
looked over our shoulders as we departed very much in 
the manner Adam did when he was forced away from 
Paradise. 

Our time is up, however, and on we speed for Ulm, 
where we see the great rival of the Rhine, the stately, 


101 


102 


SOUTHERN GERMANY. 


majestic Danube, but which at Ulm makes no pretension 
to beauty or sublimity. It looked yellowish, and excited 
but very little interest, although the citizens of Ulm 
claim that its scenery is grander than the Rhine. It is 
not unlikely that the less-trodden paths of European 
travel — Portugal, Spain and Holland — will soon become 
the rage, when the tide will turn towards all the now 
neglected nooks. Then we may expect the Danube to 
come in for its share of popularity ; wonderful legends 
will be unearthed or invented, and its beauties painted 
so vividly by artists, and its charms sung so eloquently 
by poets, that the traveller whose choice lies between the 
two rival streams will be forced to cry — 

“ How happy could I be with either, 

Were t’other dear charmer away ! ” 

The most glowing imagination would fail to recognize 
the traditional river nymphs in the stout washerwomen, 
with tucked-up skirts and bare arms, we saw soaping, 
rubbing, sousing and wringing the contents of their huge 
baskets in the stream. If the ochre tint could be changed 
to blue, w T hat a saving in indigo might be made ! The 
women appeared happy, stopping every now and then 
to laugh and gossip; doubtless they found as much 
matter for comment in us as we in them. Less happy 
appeared the women in the streets and outskirts of the 
city, performing the most menial out-door labor, a spec- 
tacle we could never learn to contemplate with any 
feeling short of positive pain. God never designed any 
member of the human family to do work only fit for 
beasts of burden. 

The streets of Ulm are as circuitous as those of the old 
part of Boston. The houses are quite lofty ; frequently 
the roofs contain two and three tiers of windows, which 
are small and quaint, but which impart a picturesque 
effect calculated to catch the eye of the artist. The less 


A DELIGHTFUL RIDE. 


103 


pretentious buildings in the vicinity of the bridges are 
so scantily supplied with windows that we concluded 
there was an onerous tax on glass. 

The ride from Ulm to Munich was by far the most 
pleasant we had in Southern Germany. The country we 
traversed is delightfully interspersed with poplar groves, 
meadows gemmed with wild flowers of blue and yellow 
blossoms, and occasional pastures where shepherds are 
seen with their dogs guarding the feeding flocks. Heaps 
of peat are ranged along the fields, reminding us of the 
conical piles of salt hay on the New Haven meadows. 

I say that the ride was pleasant, because it afforded 
an admirable opportunity to see the agricultural features 
of the country. A people who can make one pound of 
sugar from two pounds of beets, know something of agri- 
culture. As we journeyed past these highly cultivated 
fields, I wondered if there was any woman-proprietor of 
them who managed her farm with profit while residing 
twenty miles distant from her lands ; if there be, I should 
be glad to know the secret of her skill. Several Amer- 
ican ladies have published books narrating their profit- 
able experiences in farming, but the reader need have no 
fear of my adding to the number ; although I believe I 
have done better than Horace Greeley, who declared that 
the potatoes he raised cost him three dollars a bushel. 

The railroads in Germany are usually well-built ; more 
thoroughly enclosed, as a general thing, than our own. 
Many of the small towns have little gems of station- 
houses, with small windows filled with plants half hid 
behind low-hanging cornices that look as if they were cut 
out by saws that form our parlor ornaments, the use of 
which serves to keep so many of our American boys out 
of mischief. Over these cornices are trained lovely vines, 
thus converting a prosaic business structure into a bower 
of beauty. Mr. Ruskin has condemned the taste which 
leads to the decoration of the interior of railway stations, 


104 


SOUTHERN GERMANY. 


on the ground that no one lingers there longer than 
necessity compels; it cannot be that he has ever been 
detained for an hour or more in the cheerless rooms of 
the average buildings of railway corporations. 

As we roll over the somewhat monotonous plain of 
heath and fir upon which Munich is built, a twilight sky, 
pure as an opal, hung over the city. Our quarters were 
very handsome, in the Hotel of the Four Seasons, in the 
New Maximilian street, the fashionable promenade of the 
city. 

Two hours after our arrival I was enjoying something 
dearer than all Europe can give, for I was dreaming of 
home and my youngest boy beyond the great sea. 

Munich is at once one of the most delightful and 
exasperating cities; delightful for its art, exasperating 
because you cannot describe it. A year’s residence at 
Munich is the noblest art education to the amateur the 
world can furnish. I came here with less anticipation 
than I brought to any European capital; I left with 
unqualified admiration. 

But, O stranger, set not up your tent in Munich unless 
you are of the elect. Why, unless you know all the 
schools, from Thebes to Desseldorf, or can go blindfold 
through the Glyptothek and name each statue by its 
bumps, there is no hope for you here. The citizen can- 
not paint his house except in a manner to satisfy the 
authorities that the colors not only harmonize, but are 
effectively contrasted with those of neighboring struc- 
tures. 

One of our American artists has sneered at the 
assumption of Munich to be the Modern Athens, 
and says that beer, not art, is the presiding deity. A 
woman’s visit to the capital of Bavaria does not allow her 
to engage in the argument ; the institutions we visited 
were not dedicated to Bacchus ; yet in candor it must be 
added we came to know the dinner hour by seeing the 


HAPPY PROMENADERS. 


105 


streets filled with workmen and children hurrying to and 
fro with the favorite beverage in every style of utensil. 

No better evidence was wanted that the school-reading 
hooks of to-day are not those of an earlier time, than the 
circumstance of repeating the line from “ Hohenlinden.” 

“ Of Isar rolling rapidly,” 

awoke no memories among the younger members of our 
party; consequently our geographical knowledge that 
Munich is situated on the left hank of the Isar, lost its 
poetic force in the parlor, and we shortly after retired, 
after a glance at the brilliantly-lighted street, filled with 
gay promenaders of both sexes, who appeared to be on 
the best of terms with themselves and the world ; in fact, 
justified the assertion of C.,that “they didn’t care whether 
school kept or not.” 

Breakfasted at nine, and at ten took carriage for the Old 
Pinakothek, not far distant from the New Pinako- 
thek.* The first is devoted to antiques and master- 
pieces of the middle ages, mainly copies ; the new gallery 
is assigned to the display of contemporary art. The 
arrangement of the paintings, according to schools, 
each having its own saloon, is admirable ; the light is per- 
fect and the works of the greatest interest. We viewed 
them very much as the New York merchants u did the 
Centennial Exposition, arriving at Philadelphia at ten 
o’clock in the morning, returning at five the same after- 
noon. Thus the reader is spared an account of some four 
thousand paintings, statues and frescos of which I should 

* New and old gallery or deposit of paintings. Glvptothek, deposit of 
sculpture. When President Felton of Harvard University was in Munich, 
Professor Thiersch of that city told him that these titles were considered to 
be his invention ; they were not liked by the public. “ On returning from 
a walk one day,” continued the professor, “I found an inscription on my 
door, written in large letters, ‘ Nepiothek, a gallery of fools.' I took it 
flown and sent it to the old king, who nearly went into convulsions with 
laughter.” 


106 


SOUTHERN GERMANY. 


have omitted description had our stay been longer ; the 
Alps cannot be carried off in a bushel measure, nor these 
in a lady’s satchel. After leaving the Rubens-room, my 
notes were little more than the title of Mr. Ifepworth’s 
novel — “! ! ! ” a hundred times repeated. I may, how- 
ever, be allowed to say here one word — yes, I hear the 
voice that says, “ Be very sparing of notices of pictures 
and statues,” but — in regard to the copies of the old 
masters at Munich ; it may be treason to say it, but with 
few exceptions, they are more satisfactory than the origi- 
nals. The reader will perceive I have not attained that 
art knowledge which enables one to grow ecstatic over a 
canvas which is as expressive on its back as on its face. 

We were a year too early for the “Passion Play” at 
Ober-Ammergau, which is accessible by easy transit from 
Munich. But the world is not likely to remain in igno- 
rance of the decennial representations by the art-loving 
peasants of the Bavarian Alps ; upwards of forty books 
have been published in relation to Ober-Ammergau and 
the miracle plays since Miss Howitt attracted notice to 
the representations of 1850. The performances of 1880 
were witnessed by visitors from all parts of the globe, 
many of whom engaged seats six months in advance. 

The attempt to produce a miracle play of similar char- 
acter in New York was abandoned, a triumphant illustra- 
tion of the power of a united public, clergy and press in 
preserving the sanctity of the Passion of our Lord, which 
could not fail of gratifying every sincere Christian. What- 
ever may be the excellence, in an art sense, of a tableau 
reproducing Rubens’ “ Descent from the Cross,” we can 
never be brought to contemplate such a spectacle with 
any other sentiment than horror. It is a well-known fact 
that the early Christians immurred in the catacombs at 
Rome, carefully avoided any representation of the cruci- 
fixion in their rude paintings ; and in only two instances 
have they attempted to indicate the presence of the 


ARTISTS’ MODELS. 


107 


Almighty, which was done by representing a hand emerg- 
ing from clouds. 

Munich appears to be exceedingly popular with female 
art students, many of whom are Americans. The facilities 
for study and copying combined with cheapness of rent 
and living, and excellent teachers, are probably not ex- 
celled in any other art-centre in the world. There are 
about fifteen hundred artists in Munich ; I have recently 
read that there is a corresponding number of book and 
newspaper printers in Boston. 

Models abound in Munich, men and women visiting the 
studios importuning to be employed. It is told that 
young girls who sit for peasants and picturesque charac- 
ters command higher pay than the old women Avho now 
and then are introduced on the canvas. One model, a 
man upward of ninety, is a Munich celebrity ; his venera- 
ble face and flowing beard fit him for the personation of 
saints and memorable personages of sacred history. He 
is reported as having accumulated quite a little fortune in 
his profession. 

It is easy to single out the Bavarian peasants who 
come into Munich daily from the surrounding country. 
Their costume is quaint and appearance healthy. The 
woman I had so many years associated with the musi- 
cal appeal to “ Buy a Broom,” did not present herself, 
although in the market there were other women who sold 
every commodity, from pins to cabbages. The market 
scenes in nearly all the Continental cities are unfailing 
sources of interesting study. The arrangement of fruits, 
vegetables and flowers often indicates really elegant taste. 

After our visit to the Royal Palace, we could pardon 
Gustavus Adolphus’ infringement of an important com- 
mandment when he wished he could remove it to Stock- 
holm for his own use. The older portion of the magnifi- 
cent pile was finished by Maximilian I., in 1616 ; the great 
wing designed by Von Klenze, the new palace, was begun 


108 


SOUTHERN GERMANY. 


m 1826, and is consequently one of the latest built of the 
royal palaces of Europe ; the fayade is four hundred feet 
in length, in style a copy of the Pitti Palace. 

Our prejudice against King Ludwig, the father of the 
present king, was considerably lessened after inspecting 
this monument to his incomparable taste ; ‘it is doubtful 
if there is another palace on earth so truly superb. The 
ball-room, the hall of flowers, the king’s room, the queen’s 
room — but who can analyze the rainbow? Suffice it to 
say that positively all that art and matchless refined taste 
can combine to do is here accomplished. Yet I know 
not if all this splendor is shadowed when we enter the 
old palace and pass through its suites of drawing-rooms, 
banquet hall, throne room — grand, with bronze statues 
of Bavarian princes ; if the roc’s egg were only here it 
would be a realization of Aladdin’s palace — marble 
malachite, porphyry, porcelain, ormolu, around you and 
under your feet— all the celebrities of mythology and 
poetry hovering over your head upon the painted ceilings- 
halls and corridors extending for eight hundred feet- a 
marvellous perspective of statuary, painting, rose and 
satm wood, and chandeliers which reflect the light that 
falls upon their pendant ornaments in a thousand irides- 
cent hues. Blinded and dazed, you enter the Hall of 
Beauties, where art gives immortality to beauty in thirty- 
seven portraits of the most beautiful women of modern 
Munich, which, once seen, can never be forgotten The 
only collection in the world of a kindred character is in 
one of the imperial palaces of Russia - portraits of the 
most lovely peasant girls of the empire, representing fifty 
provinces. Yet greater marvels are in store for “us as 
we pass on to the Antiquarium, where it is almost cer- 
tain that Starr and Marcus have sent all their treasures 
to be stored; in the chapel the altar (adorned with can- 
delabra, statues, and vases) is of silver, the organ of 
ebony and gold, the pyx lined with diamonds, pea.ds, and 


PEARLS AND BONES. 


109 


rubies. The drapery of the statue of the Madonna, is of 
solid gold, and the diamonds in her crown are beyond 
computation. There are two caskets in this chapel, 
enriched with cameos and turquoises, one of which con- 
tains two precious pictures by Jean d’Aix la Chapelle; 
the other, of plain solid gold, weighing twenty-four 
pounds, encloses a painting in enamel of the “ Resurrec- 
tion and Paradise.” The blue diamond shown us here is 
extraordinary ; I believe connoisseurs pronounce it the 
nonpareil of colored precious stones ; it is attached to the 
Order of the Golden Fleece, and when held to the sun, 
is a miniature electric light. The Palatinate pearl, half 
white and half black, is a rare curiosity, but is quite put 
in the shade by the statuette, in an adjoining cabinet, of 
St. George and the Dragon; the group is twenty-four 
inches high; the shield is of enamelled gold, the horse 
is agate, the dragon of jasper, and the whole work 
adorned with two thousand emeralds, diamonds, pearls, 
and rubies. 

What a contrast to all this splendor and beauty were 
the relics shown us of saints, consisting of repulsive 
heads, hands, and toes! From these ghastly objects we 
gladly turn away to enter the apartments of Charles VII., 
magnificently adorned with rich furniture and massive 
mirrors, the curtains and bed-covering worked in gold 
thread, the united labor of forty persons for fifteen years. 

With aching brains and weary feet we were all now 
ready to retreat to the hotel, and on couches of less cost- 
liness than those just left behind were glad to obtain 
rest at the close of this memorable sight-seeing Satur- 
day. . . 

Sunday morning was ushered in by a ram as dreary as 

that which fell upon us at Cologne; but we braved 
the elements after breakfast, and went to the cathedral, 
where we were fortunate to secure eligible seats. The 
congregation presented a very pictorial appearance, in 


110 


SOUTHERN GERMANY. 


consequence of the gay and brilliant colors of the ladies’ 
dresses, almost festive compared to the sombre aspect 
of an American congregation. The services were im- 
pressive in form, and had we understood the language, 
there can be no doubt they would have been really 
enjoyable; at least we felt in a more worshipful frame 
of mind than when wandering from shrine to shrine, 
sometimes getting into places where we should not be 
and doing things we should certainly not, had we been 
better informed. The music was good, and the organ 
remarkable for power and tone. The present king is 
greatly interested in music, and the entire populace 
appears proficient in the art. From the cathedral we 
went to the Old Pinakothek, studying the grand master- 
pieces until three o’clock, when there was a general 
departure for dinner. The storm cleared away at five, 
giving an opportunity to all who desired to visit before 
sunset the cemetery, Longfellow’s God’s Acre, and the 
Germans’ Friedhof — Court of Peace. 

Invigorated by our Sabbath rest and the purified air 
following the storm, a large party of us entered carriages 
for a drive to the Rumeshalle — Hall of Fame — a noble 
Doric structure, a little distance from the city, upon an 
elevated site. In front of the classic porticos, stands one 
of the wonders of the world, the gigantic statue of 
Bavaria, beyond dispute the tallest woman in existence, 
sixty-six feet in height, and standing upon a pedestal 
thirty feet high. It was a mistake in placing the statue 
so near the Hall of Fame, which is dwarfed by its gigantic 
proportions. At the foundry at Munich, where the Colum- 
bus bronze door of the United States Capitol was cast, 
they tell you that twenty-two adults and two children 
were seated at the same moment in. the head of the 
model of Bavaria ; at this moment her bust weighs thirty 
tons, cast from the cannon captured at the battle of 
Navarino, drawn up from the depths where they were 


A GREAT LADY . 


Ill 


sunk by the Turks. The pose of the figure is majestic ; 
in her left hand she holds aloft a wreath of laurel, the 
right resting upon an immense Bavarian lion. The 
drapery is full, imparting harmonious dignity to the 
design. A bronze door at the base admits to the interior, 
and a flight of stairs took ten of our party into the head 
of her ladyship; they were there warmly received, the 
gentlemen who ventured into her waterfall being forced 
to retreat into the nose, the sole ventilation coming through 
the eyes, and these were already closed up by the heads 
of his comrades, Tvho were ascertaining how the world 
looks through a woman’s eyes. No lady should venture 
up to the head without cologne and hartshorn ; for, what 
with the novelty of the situation and the stifling atmos- 
phere, a sudden faintness is quite likely to occur. Should 
Bartholdi succeed in placing his proposed statue of Liberty 
in New York harbor, the head and hand of which have 
so long stared at me in my visits at the Hoffman House, 
Schwanthaler’s great lady will be looked down upon by 
her transatlantic sister from an altitude exceeding her 
own by some two hundred feet. Much as we admired 
Munich, it was impossible to repress a feeling that this 
statue would better embody a great empire, than a 
province like Bavaria ; it is as if the citizens of Rhode 
Island should set up a great image of mighty allegorical 
import, and name it Narragansett. Upon this principle, 
what limit should be placed upon the dimensions of a 
statue to typify our nation? Texas alone contains sixty 
thousand square miles more than the whole German 
Empire. 

Where is the Modern Athens? In Edinburgh, the 
Scotch told me it was there; the Bavarian says it is 
the supplementary name of Munich ; and a lively argu- 
ment I heard in the parlor of the Revere House, claims 
the title exclusively for Boston. With a due regard 
for personal safety, I shall not t/ike part in the question, 


112 


SOUTHERN GERMANY. 


and I commiserate the man or woman who attempts it 
eg cathedra. 

I know you like the streets of Munich, so many with 
little gardens in front of the houses : the vicinity of 
the galleries is a mass of green; before the Glyptothek 
the trees radiate like the sticks of an open fan. Lilacs 
and laburnums abound in the principal thoroughfares. 
Ivy is trained in every fanciful way, both inside and 
outside of shops and dwellings; shelves of the grocer 
and apothecary are veiled with vines, and the most 
modest houses have windows framed in living. green. 

Landlords are said to be very exacting in Munich 
in regard to their houses. They are all disciples of 
Malthus, and in their advertisements announce that 
“families with children need not apply.” I liked the 
city, but was not quite prepared to take a residence, 
if by so doing I should be forced to emulate Medea and 
smother my two sons. 


FIRST GLIMPSES OF ITALY. 



E are upon the great ridge-pole of Europe, the 


V V mighty Alps, on one side of which the rain falls 
into the Mediterranean, on the other into the German 
Ocean. What an age is this for the tourist. Our backs 
are no sooner turned upon the art treasures of Munich 
than we are brought face to face with the Alpine ranges. 
We left Munich by the first railway built over these 
mountain heights, via the Brenner Pass, five thousand feet 
above the sea. The day was oppressively hot, the cars 
close and the dust intrusive ; yet no discomforts were 
allowed to diminish our admiration of the wild and noble 
scenery through which we were now passing. Midsummer, 
yet on each side of us rise the snow-capped peaks, their 
bases glittering with melting ice, which, forming rivulets, 
leaps down from rock to rock, now lost in the mist made 
by a more venturesome fall, again uniting with a kindred 
stream and hurrying to a more quiet bed in the deep 
valleys below. On speeds the train, over viaducts, over 
chasms, through tunnels, alongside of a precipice where 
the slightest misjfiacement of a rail would send us all head- 
long into eternity; but so grand and inspiring are the 
constantly shifting scenes, an undue sense of danger does 
not detract from the passing enjoyment. 

It was ten o’clock in the evening of that lovely summer 
day when we arrived at Verona, where we are booked for 
the night. Were we not so much human that tired nature 
must be restored by sleep, these arrivals by night at famed 
haunts of history and romance would excite our imagina- 


113 


114 


FIRST GLIMPSES OF ITALY. 


tion to such a degree as to defy sleep. A fragment of my 
lost notes reads as follows, and relates to the approach 
to Verona : “ Country comparatively level. Substantial 

villas with red roofs. Many of the gardens enclosed by 
high walls. Glimpses of fine roads bordered by acacia and 
mulberry trees, and occasionally by poplars. Peasant 
women more gaily dressed than in Germany, and less 
number of hard-worked, prematurely old women seen. 
Considerable travel, but little bustle on the highways in 
the environs.” These observations were the result of the 
next day’s exploration, as the environs were dark when 
we passed through the evening before. 

For the first time in my life I see the morning sun in 
Italy. There could scarcely be a greater contrast than 
the brightness and variety of Munich life, to the prim, 
quiet dignity of V erona, which we are not willing to accept 
as a representative Italian city. Nature is here too much 
chilled by the mountains to put on her real Italian garb. 
Is this the city of old-time romance to which we are drawn 
by a shrieking locomotive ? Let us go out and see. First, 
to the Amphitheatre, after a look around the lower part 
of the house where we were quartered, which is evidently 
a relic of the mediaeval time. It is built around a court 
which is not a quadrangle, but a circle; balconies upon this 
court from each floor, over some of which are hanging 
bright-colored rugs having a morning airing. The furni- 
ture of my room was so old that I treated it with profound 
respect; it must be added, however, more from fear of 
being disabled than from veneration. Had it been labelled 
as formerly used by Noah in the Ark, my faith would not 
have been so much tested as at Cologne. It was perhaps 
fortunate that fatigue prevented a careful survey of the 
premises before retiring the previous night ; the ’wood- 
work was nearly black, the halls and staircases so numer- 
ous and intricate that I was utterly unable to find my way 
without a guide : many of the doors, including my own, 


A MYSTERIOUS HOTEL. 


115 


were without locks. If I should ever be moved to emu- 
late Mrs. Radcliffe and write a weird romance a la “ Mys- 
tery of Udolpho,” I should certainly secure a lease of this 
hotel for my residence while concocting the same. We 
reach the Amphitheatre by crossing the Square of Victor 
Emmanuel, which is surrounded by lofty houses with red 
roofs, above which towers the mighty ruin, the origin of 
which, like the city of Rome, is lost in the obscurity of 
the past. It is not of stone, hut of reddish marble, a 
material so valuable as to have led to vast pilferings from 
its walls for purposes of public and private use. During 
the sixteenth century the Veronese began to wake up to 
the fact that this was a wonderful work of antiquity ; and 
since then the spot has been jealously guarded, as we can 
testify by our own experience. I think it would be as 
easy to carry off “Pliny’s Doves” from the Capitol at 
Rome, as to remove the most trivial souvenir from the 
Amphitheatre at Verona. Notwithstanding the removals 
and the injury by earthquakes, enough of the structure 
remains intact to prove its extraordinary extent and beau- 
ty. Its seating capacity was forty thousand ; about thir- 
teen times greater than the New York Academy of Music. 
What scenes for the historian, the moralist and painter 
have taken place in this vast arena. We clambered over 
some of the marble seats and noticed in the substructure 
the cavities from which the iron pins have been stolen 
which welded the blocks together ; the same thefts have 
been long perpetrated by the Arabs at Baalbec. Although 
the flora is not of so great a variety as at the Roman Col- 
osseum, the walls are in some places completely veiled with 
vines, and the interstices filled with beautiful mosses; 
while here and there are elegant ferns luxuriating in the 
shadows of the huge arches. On one side there is a de- 
tached portion which hangs threateningly over the build- 
ings below, but which is a charming “ bit ” for the artist ; 
looking through its wide-open arches upon the soft blue 


110 


FIB ST GLIMPSES OF ITALY. 


sky beyond, the arena lying in mingled light and shade, 
was very Rembrantish in effect. Thanks to the vigilance 
of the guides, we left the Amphitheatre without so much 
as a sprig of moss or the leaf of a fern. 

The Church of Zan Zenone we visited dates from the 
ninth century ; elaborate bas-reliefs are on the front in 
curious designs ; the doors are of bronze. A wonderful 
window in the interior is named the “ Wheel of Fortune ; ” 
it is quite indescribable. After inspecting many interest- 
ing statues and relics in this church, our romantic wing 
of the party could be no longer kept from the tomb of 
Juliet. Alas for Romance ! They have been so irreverent 
here in Yerona as to use the sarcophagus for a watering 
trough, the cover having gone into unknown hands. No 
more satisfactory is the palace of the Capulets, in the Via 
San Sebastiano, which is now a common tavern. A hat 
(capello) over the main portal, carved in stone, is the 
argument confirming the legend. Our most vigilant in- 
quiries failed to discover the monuments in gold which 
Mr. Capulet promised to build in memory of the unfortu- 
nate lovers ; there is no alternative but to set it down 
that the stern parent was not a man of his word, or that 
Shakespeare was not a correct historian. 

There is an air of cool severity in the streets of Yerona, 
aided by the stiff cypress trees which rise behind high 
garden walls. Many of the doors are exquisitely sculp- 
tured, and in the healthy portions of the city you get 
glimpses of rich halls in which oleanders are seen, as 
much at home as if in the open air. The gardens are 
claimed to be very lovely, but we had no chance to verify 
the report. 

By noon we are flying over the flats which lay between 
us and the Adriatic, bound for Y enice. How easy to write 
the word, but what a world of conjecture, fancy, and 
idealistic dreams it embodies. 


THE BRIDE OF THE SEA. 


I T often seemed like a dream, this rapid flight over the 
Continent. At noon we took our farewell of the 
quaint old hotel which sheltered our party at Verona; 
three hours later we were stepping on board a gondola to 
transport us to the Hotel Washington, on the Grand Canal 
of Venice. Is not this “the stuff that dreams are made 
of?” 

“I get into that hearse-looking thing?” exclaims one of 
our New England lady companions, as the conductor des- 
ignates which of the waiting gondolas is at our service. 

I was a little better prepared, having seen the gondola 
so long kept on Central Park Lake. Another lady was 
confident a funeral was in progress, but was obliged quick- 
ly to abandon the theory from the frequency of the sup- 
posed coffins and hearses. Rather an ominous entree into 
a city identified with carnivals and pageants. 

The mortuary associations called up by the gondolas 
fortunately had no unfavorable- effect upon appetites, and 
a tolerably well-cooked dinner was discussed with that 
celerity characteristic of our people. As a supplement to 
the dessert, we were treated to a serenade by twelve men 
in a gondola moored in front of the hotel ; the music was 
really fine, independent of the poetic associations called 
up by the incident to the more imaginative. As for those 
gondoliers, however, who ply their oars singing the poetry 
of Tasso in the language in which it was written, they 
either do not exist, or were very shy of coming in contact 
with any of us. How prosaic the Venetian gondolier of 

117 


118 


T1IE BRIDE OF THE SEA. 


to-day may be was shown by an incident which happened 
during our visit. One of our ladies, with her daughter, 
was alarmed by the suspicious movements of an Italian 
who watched and followed them about the hotel ; this f was 
kept up until they feared to leave the house. The major- 
domo of our party was informed of the circumstance, and 
his inquiries proved that the Italian’s motives were not 
sinister ; the ladies had once been out in his gondola, and 
he was so generously rewarded that he was hoping for 
another job. 

If our ideal Venice was not wholly realized, there is 
yet sufficient color, half-barbaric magnificence and Orien- 
tal outline, to place the city of the three hundred and fifty 
canals, four thousand gondolas, and innumerable bridges, 
among the few Meccas of the world that will attract man- 
kind throughout all time. Wise and reverent was the decree 
of the Fathers, that henceforth the gorgeously-dyed drap- 
eries of the gondolas should be replaced by black ; but 
with the decree, Venice lost half her picturesqueness and 
color. It was flying in the face of Nature; for here was 
the laboratory where she evolved her rarest tints long be- 
fore Titian and Paul Veronese came to mirror them in 
their fadeless works. Before the Venetians had emerged 
from their huts of mud they manufactured dyes of gold 
and purple in which their sails were dipped. There is no 
blue to compare with the noonday V enetian sky ; no crim- 
son to vie with her evening clouds in the west. 

While the sweet tones of the serenaders were yet 
lingering in our ears, a detachment of us went out upon 
the streets ; those of the gentlemen of Falstaffian pro- 
portions choosing to walk singly, as the narrow ways, 
about four feet wide, did not encourage the custom of 
walking in pairs. On one side are the shops, on the other 
lies the Canal. 

A general pulling out of watches is followed by the 
announcement that it is time we all scamper for the piazza 


THE PIGEONS' LUNCH. 


119 


of St. Mark’s to see the pigeons at their two-o’clock lunch. 
There are some of us among w r hose heads the silver threads 
are crowding out those of darker hue, but we are all chil- 
dren now ; that gentleman Avitli the King-Lear locks of 
snow buying corn of the boy leaning against the flag-staff, 
I will venture, has in his distant home in Ohio or Lou- 
isiana, some darlings who call him “grandpa;” and in 
their name he will feed the birds. Here they come, over 
the winged lion, over the bronze horses, down from the 
campanile, the domes and the balconies ; fearless, for they 
know none may lift a hand to harm ; and Mr. Bergh will 
never have to frame a bill for their protection. The an- 
cestors of these birds were carrier pigeons, who, during 
the siege of Constantinople, by Admiral Dandolo, did such 
important service that the grateful government of Venice 
which profited by their celerity has thus generously pro- 
vided for their posterity. Some of our practical ladies, 
who are great sticklers for cleanliness, regarded the fow r ls 
as a nuisance. 

You know, of course, that we are standing upon the 
Piazza in front of St. Mark’s. But I am going to spare 
you a description. Bold would be the man or woman to 
do that, so long as the “Stones of Venice” is in print. I 
forgive Mr. Ruskin for his cool words on America; for 
his description of St. Mark’s is the most inimitable word- 
photograph in the English language — the cherished gem 
of a thousand American home libraries. 

It would seem very odd if the founders of Trinity 
Church had built the church on one side of Broadway and 
the spire on the other ; yet that is the case here, for the 
campanile of St. Mark’s is as much disconnected from the 
cathedral. It rises to a height of three hundred and 
twenty-six feet, and from its belfry a superb view of sea 
and land is had. It was noticed that those who ascended 
into the head of Bavaria, at Munich, were not ambitious to 
climb the campanile ; it was August, and we were in Italy. 


120 


THE BRIBE OF THE SEA . 


“ Who enters here leaves hope behind,” may tritely be 
said of those who pass the portal of St. Mark’s into the 
vestibule and interior ; that is, any hope to reproduce it 
unless holding the pen of a Ruskin or the pencil of a 
Kaulbach. The light is mysterious and dim, but enough 
to indicate you are in a fairy land of marble, mosaic and 
painted glass. The effect of the Apostles on the parapet 
which divides the nave and choir, figures in black bronze, 
is strikingly impressive in contrast to the gorgeous color- 
ing on every side. You are told that the two marble 
columns each side of the main portal were brought from 
Jerusalem; from the temple whose glories you think you 
have seen repeated before you. 

To us the one distinguishing feature of Venice is its 
Oriental character ; we were quite resigned to the omis- 
sion of Constantinople from our route, and here the min- 
gling of domes and minarets with Roman fa9ades is not 
so inharmonious as it would be in a more northern 
latitude. 

Our visit was limited to two days, consequently we 
could not extend our exploration much beyond the Grand 
Canal. This winds in gentle detours through the city’s 
centre. Our day-ride over this noiseless highway had 
been full of interest, grand marble palaces and churches 
rising on either hand, but it was reserved for our moon- 
light row to realize the traditional beauty of Venice. I 
by no means endorse all that the enthusiasts claim for 
Naples and Venice, but I honor all drafts for admiration 
on the moon of Venice which the artists call the “Sun of 
Ruins.’ I am not sure but Venice has a moon of her 
own ; it is so lustrous, so near, its light so blue, that it 
scarcely seems our old friend of other lands. The red 
sun was not yet out of sight in the West as we stepped 
into the neat gondola that was to convey us down the 
Canal; the sides of the little cabin were all of drapery, 
drawn wholly aside, so that the view was unobstructed in 


TIIE GRAND CANAL AT MIDNIGHT . 


121 


every direction ; one gondolier was seated in front of us 
with oar in lock, another stood in the stern using his oar 
alternately as rudder, paddle, and an instrument of saluta- 
tion to the passing and repassing brothers of his craft. 
There is no art by which the lights and shadows produced 
by the moon on the sculptured fronts of the Venetian 
palaces can be counterfeited ; blue silver on ebony is the 
only comparison I can make. The effect is heightened by 
the contrast of artificial light seen through the parti-colored 
windows of the palaces ; but many of these are black as 
silhouettes when in shadow, the owners either absent at 
their country villas, or else palaces that are only used by 
day for business purposes, or wholly tenantless. One does 
not need to be a millionaire to occupy a palace in Venice. 
We saw one not far distant from Palazzo Contarini Fasan, 
one of the noblest in Italy, which could have been pur- 
chased for a less sum than a year’s rental of many Broad- 
way wholesale stores, leaving a margin for furnishing and 
a brand new gondola. I found myself writing my name 
on imaginary visiting cards with Palazzo so-and-so, Ven- 
ice, in the right-hand corners. I mention this lest some 
captious critic should think I flattered myself I possessed 
more common sense than other people. Wilder fancies 
than this, even, could be pardoned on the moonlit canals 
of Venice. 

Utterly unable to sleep in this memory-haunted city, I 
sought out a window looking upon the canal and watched 
the gondolas returning with their passengers from above 
and below. It was almost weird, so much life and motion, 
and no sound of wheels ; and as every writer who visits 
Venice reserves a line to say there is not a horse nor cart 
in it, I will here add, that if there be, I saw them not. 

By midnight the gondolas are few ; those that pass are 
probably returning with visitors at the Public Garden at 
the extreme point of the city bordering on the Lagoons. 
We see the palaces whose owners in the by-gone centuries 


122 


THE BRIBE OF THE SEA. 


were the Stewarts and Vanderbilts of the world. There 
are the marble steps where waited their red-liveried ser- 
vants to receive the visitors who enjoyed their princely 
hospitality ; and here are yet the very posts, painted with 
colors corresponding to the family liveries, at which their 
gondolas were moored. Past the window in which I am 
seated has glided the Bucanteur, the barge whose deck 
was inlaid with pearl and ebony, and over which hung a 
pavilion curtained with gold brocade and crimson velvet, 
bearing the Doge to the spot where he should wed the 
Adriatic, by dropping a ring into the sea. 


THE RIALTO AND THE DUCAL PALACE. 


W AS not that a good morning’s work under a mid- 
summer Italian sun ? The Ducal Palace was our 
first halting place. The exterior is the extreme of 
princely magnificence. We pass into the golden-walled 
vestibule and up the stairs, at the head of which the doges 
were crowned, and down which rolled the severed head 
of Marino Faliero. We look into the JBocca di Leone , 
where the anonymous accusations against the suspected 
were dropped, too often followed by incarceration and fear- 
ful torture. Into the Hall of Three, where sat the man in 
scarlet robes whose fiat was life or death. We cling to 
the arm of our companion as we pass with hated breath 
over the Bridge of Sighs, leading from halls of unexam- 
pled luxury to loathsome dungeons below the sea. Glad 
were we to ascend from those dreadful cells and cross the 
bridge again to the palace, so rich in Titanesque splendor 
and beauty. Here is the hall where the ambassadors 
were received, and, beyond, the bed-chamber of the Doge, 
in front of which are yet the marks of the heels of the 
guard who walked to and fro to shield the sleeping ruler 
of the Republic from the assassin’s dagger. 

To use Byron’s expression in the galleries of Florence, 
we were “drunk with beauty” we saw in the Ducal 
Palace, which exists in so many varied forms beyond 
the statues of Mars and Neptune at the top of the 
grand marble staircase. The eye cannot look up, down, 
or around, but it meets the richest color — purple, 

123 


124 THE RIALTO AND THE DUCAL PALACE. 


crimson, and gold. But how oft has the gold been 
crimsoned with the vital tide ! There is a line of 
painted doges before you with an ominous space 
draped in black; on that blank once hung the portrait 
of Marino Faliero; when the sword of the execu- 
tioner fell upon his neck, the painting was removed. 
The floors of the cells we have just visited are paved 
with stones which were finished with smooth surface, 
that the blood of the victims of the Inquisition might 
be easier wiped up. We have glanced at the win- 
dows through which the murdered corses were thrown 
into the Adriatic. What groans and sighs and dying 
shrieks have echoed across that historic bridge. Let 
us pass out to the Piazzetta, where the melody of the 
band may serve to drown the painful associations which 
the Ducal Palace with all its splendor cannot prevent 
recurring to the mind. 

Stay! Let us not leave these wonderful halls of the 
doges without a glance at the largest oil painting in 
the world, Tintoretto’s “Paradise;” eighty-four feet 
wide, and thirty-four feet high. It is a wonderful 
conception. The artist has introduced the portrait of 
his wife in these realms of the blest, but was careful 
to exclude any female figure that might be thought 
to be intended for the woman that refused to marry 
him. Artists have their revenges; Michael Angelo and 
Da Vinci painted their enemies in purgatory. The 
American who was suddenly enriched by an oil well, 
and wished to go to Europe to be painted by the 
old masters, did not think they were such malicious 
creatures. 

The fish-market near the Rialto is a scene of novel 
life; I would have enjoyed a longer time to view the 
finny inhabitants of the Venetian seas than was allowed 
us. The salt-air atmosphere here was eminently more 
agreeable than the odors we encountered in other parts 


THE RIALTO. 


125 


of the city ; for although in this respect V enice is to 
Naples as gray to black, yet it would do no harm, in a 
sanitary way, if the tide would rise just enough in some 
of the narrow streets of Venice to cover them for an 
hour or more. The American woman who leaves Italy 
without the most delicate of her senses stunned, is more 
fortunate than any of our companions. Old travellers 
say that these cities are much cleaner than formerly; that 
the great influx of tourists has led to some reform ; and 
that only in Syria and Egypt you are outraged with filth. 
If this be true, I, for one, am glad I was not among the 
earlier travellers. 

Every one knows that the Rialto is an arch, with a 
pointed apex, spanning the Grand Canal. The fish- 
market we have just left, lies around the base of one 
of the abutments. The Rialto is considerably wider 
than Broadway, and rests on more than ten thousand 
piles. By the way, one cannot help wandering what 
would become of Venice if the piles should all simul- 
taneously decay. But they are said to be almost im- 
perishable, many of the tnore valuable being of cedar. 
It is told of an impoverished Venetian family, that 
its patrician head proposed taking down the palace 
to sell the cedar piles upon which it was built. This 
appears to be a confirmation of the theory of a spend- 
thrift Earl of Oxford, who sold the ancestral forests 
in order to reduce his obligations, saying that, “oaks 
are an excrescence upon the earth’s surface, which 
Nature had provided for man with which to pay his 
debts.” 

An arcade extends through the centre of the Rialto, 
in which are shops eligibly situated to catch custom 
and the sear-breezes as they come sweeping up from 
the bay. From the Rialto to the Jews’ quarter is a 
natural transition to those of us who have been quoting 
the “ Merchant of Venice ” on the bridge associated with 


126 THE RIALTO AND THE DUCAL PALACE. 


his name. Some of the buildings in the Venetian Ghetto 
are substantial, even elegant; groups of women were 
seated at the door-steps, evidently gossips of an 
incorrigible cast. There were some old men ugly enough 
to pass for Shylock, while here and there might be 
seen the face of a young woman peeping out from an 
arched window, who would serve for Jessica. There 
is some truth in the assertion that the curse has not fallen 
on the Jewish maiden. 

Life on the canals, more than any out-door feature 
of Venice, most interested us; so novel, compared to 
anything we can view at home. The gondolas winding 
through fleets of market-boats loaded with vegetables and 
fruits add much to the pictorial effect. These are often 
propelled by bare-legged boys, who manage their craft 
with inimitable dexterity ; and should they fall overboard, 
you would feel no more alarm than you would at seeing 
a duck plunge into a pond. In some houses we saw boys 
in the basement windows, from which they were fishing. 
The boys with whom we came in contact were so 
intolerably odorous of onions and garlic, that all were 
content to view them at a distance, as a part of the 
picturesque scenes around us. Goethe accounted for 
the grace and self-possession of young Venice upon the 
ground that the humblest lad might be eligible to the 
chair of the Doge. The argument would be more 
pertinent as applied to young America ; especially when 
we have just seen a poor canal boy inaugurated the 
ruler of fifty millions of free men. 

A peculiar optical delusion is produced by going out 
in a gondola into the open sea beyond the Custom- 
house, and looking back until the tide attains its flood. 
As the water in the canals rises, the city appears to be 
sinking. If you chance to time your trip about sunset, 
the beauty of the view is only second to that of the 
Bay of Naples. The red buoys protruding here and 


A PRETTY PICTURE. 


127 


there in the sea reminded me of those blotches of ver- 
milion which glow like coals in many of Turner’s paint- 
ings. 

It is a pretty picture to see a fleet of the best class 
of gondolas with shining steel prows glide swiftly 
past the slower, ruder craft laden with vegetables and 
fruit. But these are often rich in a beauty all their 
own ; for their freight is arranged apparently for effect : 
pyramids of vegetables and melons, hid at the base 
with large baskets of plants and flowers. Still more 
picturesque are the fishing craft, with fantastic sails, and 
images and garlands at the top of their masts. 

Could the Academy of Venice be transported to New 
York or Boston, I would promise to make an annual 
pilgrimage to it for the study of Venetian art. Paul 
Veronese, Tintoretto and Titian, the great trium- 
virate of colorists, are here seen in their glory. Stand- 
ing before Veronese’s “Triumph of Venice,” in the presence 
of those stately dames in dresses of cloth of gold and 
green and crimson velvet, I was quite abashed as I looked 
down on my sober attire. It is certain that Mr. Rogers 
stood before this picture when he described those stately 
matrons and blooming girls who figure in his “ Italy ” as the 
“mothers” and the “twelve brides of Venice.” If the 
reports of certain youth with us, who doubtless regard 
themselves as grave judges in such matters, may be 
credited, the descendants of those bridal heroines, so 
happily rescued from the pirates of Istria, have not 
inherited the charms which poetry and art have united 
in ascribing to their predecessors. 

On one of the slender columns supporting the awning 
of a gondola used by our party was written in a fem- 
inine English hand, “Adieu, Venice! Adieu, forever!” 
It may have been traced by one who, like ourselves, 
left Venice with a sense of something lost out of the 
previous life. The ideal Venice is no more for us forever. 


12S 


THE RIALTO AND THE DUCAL PALACE. 


As we leave this city in the sea by the railroad, 
which seems to float on the Adriatic, we look back 
upon its glittering domes, from which springs the tall 
Campanile, like a tower or lighthouse. As these lessen 
in the perspective, something of the illusion of the 
sinking Venice is perceptible 5 and you speculate upon 
the possible obliteration of all this marvel foreshadowed 
by the already sunken floor of St. Mark’s : 

“O Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls 
Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o’er thy sunken halls, 

A loud lament along the sweeping sea.” 


1 






MIDSUMMER STUDIES IN FLORENCE. 


"YXT E left Venice at noon, Aug. 2, for Florence, via 

W Padua, Ferrara and Bologna, passing over the 
rocky Apennines. Short and long tunnels are so fre- 
quent that the male members of our party shake their 
heads at the probable cost of the road. They tell of cer- 
tain stocks they hold, valueless save for kindling the office 
fire. To use a homely phrase, your genuine Yankee never 
“sinks the shop.” It is certain that two-thirds of the 
business men of the party would like nothing better than 
a chance to get back to-morrow at their respective scenes 
of battle for the almighty dollar. In general intelligence 
America is far ahead of Europe ; but there is very much 
in the transatlantic character we may study with profit, 
not the least of which is the ability to enjoy a holiday. 
Our ladies better understand this, and are determined to 
make the most of the opportunity. So we close our ears 
to the discussion of stocks, bonds and mortgages, and keep 
our eyes open to the mountain scenery in view ; not that 
it is particularly beautiful, but interesting for its deep 
gorges and lofty ledges, where toy-like cottages are rest- 
ing quietly in the summer sun. 

Our companions are long since as domesticated as one 
family, and if the other sections harmonize as well as the 
ladies and gentlemen composing that in which my son and 
I are journeying with there will be a large sum total of 
happy reminiscences to recall at the annual reunions in 
Boston. Should these pages fail to prove how much profit 
and pleasure can be derived from these excursions, I hope 

129 


130 


MIDSUMMER STUDIES IN FLORENCE. 


to make amends by giving my testimony in person at the 
Hotel Vendome reception, February 15th, 1883. There 
are, of course, disadvantages attendant upon this mode of 
travel, as there are in smaller parties, but they are reduced 
to a low maximum. To those unfamiliar with the Conti- 
nental languages, and who wish to have the greatest pos- 
sible amount of sight-seeing with the least expenditure of 
time and money, it is difficult to conceive how our advan- 
tages could be excelled. Dr. Tourjee and his coadjutors 
are tireless in their exertions to please ; no sinecure, when 
we consider the great number of their guests, with varied 
tastes, and the constitutional tendency of human nature 
to find fault. We realize that we command privileges that 
individual tourists would have to employ considerable 
finesse to obtain. I am sure there are hundreds of my 
countrywomen upon whom, like myself, the superintend- 
ence of the education of their children devolves, who 
would gladly avail themselves of the advantages of a trip 
from New York to Pompeii, were they assured it could be 
accomplished so safely, with entire exemption from con- 
ventional annoyances, and in the society of people of cul- 
ture, whose friendship will contribute to the happiness 
of life in all future years. Now and then I have been 
betrayed into expressions of discontent, at the seeming 
stoicism of some of our members ; but 1 should not forget 
that my own enthusiasm may be no less unpleasing to oth- 
ers; for there is some truth in the aphorism of Talleyrand, 
that nothing gives greater offence than the enthusiasm of 
zeal. As this book is mainly written for personal friends, 
I may be pardoned for entering a plea in justification of 
the deep feeling I have found it utterly impossible to 
withhold. This trip to Europe, which to many is a mat- 
ter of no more account than a morning ride by rail from 
New York to Philadelphia, was for me a life-dream 
realized. Years had been devoted to preparation. My little 
library gradually accumulated upon its shelves standard 


HOME TRAVELS. 


131 


works of history and art, pertinent to European travel, and 
my children and transient guests were called upon to read 
aloud from them in the family circle. Photographs, engrav- 
ings, and the stereoscope were pressed into service, as well 
as the globes and maps, to impart all that a theoretical pil- 
grimage could give of realism. Yet with all these appli- 
ances, I feel that only a second trip could adequately lit 
one for a complete enjoyment of the educational advan- 
tages of a tour of Europe. 

These reflections have been jotted down at the expense 
of losing much of the scenery through which we are 
whirled, over up-grades and down-grades. 

The unpleasant effluvia and heat of Venice are suc- 
ceeded by odorless and invigorating air which seems to 
have been pumped out of the cool caverns of the Apen- 
nines. With all these favorable conditions, however, by 
the time we reached Florence, at eight o’clock, fatigue had 
so mastered us that we were compelled to go dinnerless to 
bed. Sleep was not to be wooed until long past mid- 
night, when, with the music of serenaders on the street 
floating in at the open window, I fell into a doze and rose 
at an early hour unrefreshed and with little zest for 
exploring a city so long the cynosure of the world. I 
believe I have elsewhere recorded my pride in being able 
to rise above the constantly recurring impulse to give up 
any furthur advance, and rest. If we feel that we must 
succumb at Florence, what is our chance at Rome and 
Naples? Here, in this land of inertness, where Nature 
wooes to the dolce far niente , there is no rest for us. So 
we order a carriage and drive to the Pitti Palace, the 
most complete gallery in Europe. It was designed by 
Brunelleschi, and built of huge blocks of unhewn stone, 
many of which are twenty-five feet in length ; the only 
buildings in America which in any degree can compare 
with its solidity are some of the commercial blocks 
extending along Boston harbor, north of the Custom-house. 


132 MIDSUMMER STUDIES IN FLORENCE. 

In the fourteen saloons we find five hundred paintings in 
the left wing. You understand, after you have walked 
through this palace, which contains such priceless art and 
wonderful furniture, what was meant by one of the Medici 
who occupied it ; he lay dying and the priest was endeav- 
oring to console him by recounting the joys of mansions 
in the skies. “My dear father,” groaned the expiring 
patrician, “ I am content with the Pitti. ” M. Taine has 
epitomized this palace when he says, “Poisoning and 
assassination were hereditary in this family, but their 
tables of malachite and mosaic are so beautiful ! ” 

No lover of Raphael (and who is not?) should leave 
the Pitti without spending a devotional hour before the 
“ Madonna del Gran Duca, ” so named from having been 
the favorite of the Grand Duke Ferdinand, in whose 
private apartments it hung, but frequently taken down to 
accompany him in his carriage when journeying. Before 
coming into possession of the Duke it was owned by a 
poor widow, ignorant of its real value, who sold it, in 
1791 , to a picture dealer for a mere pittance. 

The work is one of the earliest of Raphael. Although 
there is little trace here of the classical purity of his later 
Madonnas, the modesty and sweetness of this face is un- 
rivalled. There is no introduction of the graces of 
the stately duchesses of Urbino ; it is studied from 
the genuine peasant girl, even to the large hands. 
The beauty of the mother is not shared by the child, 
which is only remarkable for the loveliness of its flesh 

tint almost redolent of the aroma emanating from the 

bosom of a lovely babe. Masterly as the painting is, you 
cannot but feel that the young Raphael was not yet able 
to grasp the celestial images haunting his dreams. This was 
only to be when he drew the Seggiola and Sistine groups. 

The enjoyment of these princely galleries, great as it 
may be, is not wholly unalloyed. There is too much of 
the grossness of mythology, of which one gets quite 



Madonna della Sedia, Raphael, Pitti Palace, Florence 



A BRILLIANT GALAXY. 


133 


enough in classic study, without having it given shape 
and color. In the Uffizi there are two paintings by Titian 
which should be relegated to quarters where only stu- 
dents have access. Our libraries each have an “ Index 
Expurgatorius ; ” why should the directors of art gal- 
leries be less scrupulous? These ideas should not be set 
down as prudish ; I am confident they are those of a 
thousand of my countrywomen, who regard a painting 
which an American mother would not choose to have her 
son look upon as unfit for the walls of a public gallery, 
no matter how extraordinary the skill it displays. There 
are those to whose judgment I am usually ready to defer 
in art matters who say by this elimination you have gal- 
leries only fit for Puritans. Better this, than portions of 
some of the Continental galleries, only fit for Impuritans. 

A corridor containing nearly two thousand drawings 
passes over the Arno on the east side of the Ponte 
Vecchio, connecting the Pitti with the Uffizi, another 
depository of paintings and sculpture of inestimable value. 
Should Europe lose all beside these two collections, it 
would still be rich. At the Uffizi we see long perspec- 
tives of statues of the famed sons of Tuscany. Why 
should not Florence boast of her preeminence in science, 
art and letters? Dante, Alberti, Petrarch, Boccaccio, 
Da Vinci, Savonarola, Michael Angelo, Macchiavelli, 
Vespucci, Cellini, Galileo, Lorenzo the Magnificent, and 
Leo X. What a galaxy ! 

At the Uffizi you see Fra Angelico at his best. I here 
recognize what Savonarola intended when he wished to 
found a school of art which should be evangelical. What 
ideal purity and sweetness in the heads of Fra Angelico’s 
cherubim s ! There is one panel filled with his musical 
angels playing upon the harp, organ and cymbals, which 
is like having a glimpse beyond the golden clouds of a 
Venetian sunset. His title of Angelico came from his 
piety and supreme skill in drawing celestial beings. He 


134 MIDSUMMER STUDIES IN FLORENCE . 

never commenced a work without supplicating the favor 
of God. No wonder that his panels and canvas are 
flooded with effulgent light. Of the ethereal saints of 
Giotto how can we speak in other terms than rapture ? 
Could there be two men of more widely separated styles 
than Titian and Giotto? — the former so sensuous, the 
latter so idealistically pure. In studying Giotto you 
realize the higher mission of Art. The very hands of 
his saints are religious. 

From gallery to gallery we proceed, new vistas open- 
ing the moment one has terminated. Alexander had only 
one world to conquer ; but here we have a legion. The 
mind is staggered in the contemplation of the immensity 
of man’s labor. 

We saw more Americans in Florence than in any other 
city since leaving London. What if the time should 
come when Europeans will visit us in corresponding num- 
bers? All that is necessary is to make it the fashion. 

Rome has churches to equal the number of days in the 
year, and Florence has nearly two hundred ; a fair pro- 
portion to her population, which is the same as that of 
Washington : one hundred and sixty thousand. The 
dome of the cathedral is one of those objects Avords 
are impotent to describe. Enough that it exceeds in 
size and grandeur St. Peter’s dome at Rome. Three 
of the largest New York churches could be placed along- 
side the Florence Cathedral Avithout extending beyond 
its depth. There is something in the immensity of these 
vast interiors which appeals with irresistible poAver to 
the devotional sense. All the Avonders of the seventeen- 
million-dollar chapel of the Medici fail to impress the 
mind as these. In San Lorenzo we find Michael Angelo’s 
“Night and Day.” “Night” is crowned Avith poppies, and 
in a dreamless sleep. The figures are colossal, and the 
anatomy Avonderful. We gaze in awe and admiration; 
no voice is heard above a whisper. 



The Duorno at Florence. 




H 





VANITY OF ART-PATRONS . 


135 


The Church of San Minianto crowns a lovely hill in 
the environs, around which is an ancient cemetery ; 
another Campo Santa. The interior of the church is 
filled with tombs and memorials of the dead, to which 
are brought wreaths and flowers, the same as if without 
the walls. The coming through the choir window 

is exquisitely tender ; instead of glass, it is formed of 
thin sheets of alabaster. 

Many of the figures of saints and Madonnas in 
the Florentine churches are portraits of members of 
ancient families, showing that the Tuscan pride is not 
altogether modern. The reader who has visited Darm- 
stadt and Dresden will recall the two holy families by 
the Holbeins, in which are seven portraits of the Burgo- 
master Meyer’s family, including his own. Could the 
flattery of an artist or the ambitious vanity of his patrons 
go beyond this? We may never know how many women 
of the Renaissance have their beauty immortalized in the 
faces of the saints and Madonnas we have seen. 

I warn all American ladies who are not so fortunate as 
to own silver-mines or oil-wells, to shun the Jeweller’s 
Bridge at Florence. Like the Rialto, it is lined with 
shops; but in these there is such a wealth of mosaics 
and precious stones displayed as to make one fairly 
tremble for fear of being left penniless. You are much 
safer in the galleries of the Pitti and Uffizi, because 
you know that even Mr. Vanderbilt could not purchase 
anything exposed there. We recollect w r e are commanded 
not to covet our neighbor’s goods, so we turn away 
from these cases of “imprisoned light,” and go to the 
Ponta di Santa Trinita, a bridge over three hundred 
years old, and the popular evening promenade of the 
city. It is brilliantly lit and adorned with statues; no 
sooner has the sun set, than it is filled wdtli gay youth of 
both sexes, who pass and repass, smiling and chatting 
in a manner so animated as to be almost contagious. 


136 


MIDSUMMER STUDIES IN FLORENCE. 


There is no gloom in Florence; vivacity, content, com- 
fort, and prosperity, appear wherever you go. 

The brilliant evening scenes upon the piazza of St. 
Mark’s at Venice were repeated here a hundredfold. 
The entire populace must have been out-doors ; some 
streets filled with people, seated, smoking and drinking ; 
it seemed to us as if it was some great fete day, and that 
on the morrow the people would go to work ; but when 
the next day and evening came, the same scenes were 
repeated. It would be worth another Aveek of ocean dis- 
comfort to come over again for an autumn or spring in 
this “ City of the Lily.” We should never tire of riding 
through the lovely suburbs, with their broad-roofed villas 
and rich gardens. 

The Cascine, like Boston Common, originally was a 
cow-pasture; it is the popular resort of the citizens 
and visitors, containing fine lawns and trees, but is 
greatly inferior to Central Park, which, as a whole, 
has nothing to fear in comparison with any public park 
of Europe. I regret to see that this pride of our 
metropolis is not so well-kept as formerly. The Boboli, 
however, on the right bank of the river, is a delightful 
garden bower. A walk hedged by cypress-trees, extends 
through the centre of the garden, which leads you into 
little groves of mulberry, almond, and olive-trees — the 
fit abodes of nightingales. A superb flight of stone 
stairs, with five or six landings, each adorned with 
standing statues, leads down to a little gem of a lake, 
around which are orange and oleander-trees in fruit and 
blossom, growing in tubs; in the centre of the lake a 
massive marble fountain, sculptured by Giovanni Bologna, 
is placed, from which the water drips in liquid melody. 
This artist is also the sculptor of the colossal figure 
of the Apennine, in the Park of Pratolino, some distance 
from the city. If this giant ever goes a-wooing, he could 
find but one lady in the world entitled to his regard, 


A GIANT’S BEARD. 


137 


she of Bavaria; his beard is said to be twenty feet in 
length. There are several vistas in the Boboli Gardens, 
through which you have fine views of the city and the 
shining Arno. 

The rear of the Pitti Palace makes a fitting background 
to the older portions of the Boboli Gardens, laid out by 
the wife of Cosmo de Medici. Massive hedges, over 
which none but giants could peep, we see encircling lawns 
from which rise the cypress, ilex and Italian pine. From 
the highest ground we get a noble view of the city, the 
Arno and environs, a view that has much of the beauty 
of Naples without the debilitating surroundings. The 
Arno from this point appears lined on both sides with 
palaces and gardens; you look down upon the balustraded 
roofs of the former, which are as spotless as the pave- 
ments of Philadelphia after a Saturday morning scrub- 
bing. The Tower of Galileo, some distance from here, is 
said to afford the best view, in consequence of its superior 
height, but we did not visit it. Here was where he made 
those studies of the heavenly bodies which brought upon 
him the same charge of heresy the friars of Salamanca 
brought against Columbus. Science in our day is, fortu- 
nately, less hampered ; Darwin can claim man to be the 
posterity of the most ignoble of the animal creation with- 
out incurring the risk of the inquisition’s cell. 

Our ride back to the hotel was through delightfully 
clean streets ; and although many of the palaces are of 
great antiquity, they have a much fresher air than those 
of Verona and Venice. The Capponi Palace we pass in 
the Via San Sebastino is celebrated for its magnificent 
staircase. Opposite, is the palace of the Velluti-Zati ; 
noted merchants who were the inventors of velvet. 

After a refreshing lunch we start for the Loggia de 
Lanzi, an open colonnade of three arches, supported by 
pillars filled with the purest antique, mediaeval and modern 
sculpture ; these works are in the open air, upon a pave- 


138 


MIDSUMMER STUDIES IN FLORENCE. 


ment elevated above that of the square. The bronze 
Perseus of Benvenuto Cellini at once catches the eye; 
the pose is dramatic, yet not theatrical. 

During our stay at Florence there was considerable 
gossip concerning works of art in the city of which the 
public had lost sight ; it was thought there were about 
two thousand five hundred paintings stored away in 
old palaces and galleries ; treasure-trove to future collect- 
ors. The public galleries are constantly thronged with 
tourists, and great caution is exercised to prevent rob- 
bery; this sometimes occurs through the cupidity of 
officials. The head of one of the chief galleries, it is 
told, recently discovered that certain works appeared in 
the inventory, but not on the walls. Suspecting a direc- 
tor, he at once solicited an interview, and inquired would 
he do him a very great favor. 

“ Certainly ; what is it ? ” 

“ Resign to-morrow. ” 

In writing of Paris, I have drawn some parallels 
between the capital on the Seine and New York. At Flor- 
ence I find characteristics that are repeated in Boston ; 
more, however, in social features than in art. The Bos- 
tonians have the same pride in citizenship and local his- 
tory as the Tuscans; the same dignity, but greater reserve 
and suspicion. After the Puritan blood has more assim- 
ilated with the Gaellic, Celtic and Teutonic, life in the 
tri-mountain city will more resemble that of Florence than 
now. 

Let us not leave this delightful city without a modicum 
of praise for its finely-paved streets. Should a lady walk 
the centre of Broadway for two blocks, it is not probable 
she would ever repeat the attempt. But the Florence 
streets are as smooth as those of Washington, and it is a 
luxury to either drive or walk over them. 

For the first ten miles, as we leave for Rome, I had a 
grudge against the engine-driver for taking our train so 


WEARY PILGRIMS. 


139 


speedily through the enchanting suburbs. Who may tell 
of the midsummer glories of these olive groves, with 
their silver-lined leaves trembling in the breeze sweeping 
down from the Apennines through the valley of the Arno? 
Who are the favored sons and daughters of God that 
dwell in these castles and villas, in the midst of gardens 
where Tasso might have written his “ Armida?” For a 
moment I was rebellious. Why might I not, too, here 
retire and shut out the world beyond ; a world of business 
cares and anxieties ; a world where the greater part of 
American lives aVe devoted to the accumulation of dol- 
lars, and the other part made bitter by inability to secure 
a higher interest for them without endangering the prin- 
cipal. 

The dome of the cathedral is the last object we see 
of the city, as grand and beautiful as on that distant 
day when Michael Angelo beheld it from the heights 
as he wended his way to Rome to plan the dome of 
St. Peter’s — 


“ I will make her sister dome 
Larger; yes, but not more beautiful.” 

Yes, Florence, thou art truly peerless ; a Tuscan pearl 
set in an emerald frame of oleander, olive and pome- 
granate ; but thy miles of galleries have made the feet 
of the tired pilgrim from the West very, very sore. 


PARTHENOPEAN SHORES. 


N early morning train from Rome took us to Naples. 



il What with the line dust, the heat and tormenting 
thirst, this was as disagreeable a journey as I ever had in 
any country. Water was literally prohibited; as danger- 
ous, it was said, as the night air of the Campagna ; but 
water we must have or perish. Never before did we 
realize the force of the line, “ As welcome as a cup of 
cold water to a thirsty soul.” But all earthly miseries 
have an end; in due time we were fairly luxuriating in a 
draught of pure water which we dipped with our own 
hands in the cellar of the hotel at Naples. 

The topography of the city is so universally known 
that it is needless for me to recapitulate it. To write 
anything positively new of the city or environs is a 
hopeless aspiration ; as hopeless as the possibility of 
inventing a new adjective of admiration to apply to the 
scenes around you. To many people the charms of a 
Paradise Lost are greater than those of a Paradise 
Regained. Your experience at Naples gives an oppor- 
tunity to sing of both. Nothing could be farther re- 
moved from the popular conception of the beauty of 
Naples, than some of the scenes I faintly portray, and 
nothing this side of realms of eternal beauty can exceed 
those portions of its shores whose loveliness has inspired 
all poets from the time of Virgil. Yet no gift of man 
is equal to reproducing the Neapolitan Shore. Were 
every scarlet leaf of its oleander groves a tongue, the 
tale would still remain untold. We had thought that 


140 


DISSOLVING VIEWS. 


141 


on some portions of the Rhine, Nature had reached 
her Ultima Thule ; but that she only fashioned here; 
and whatever of beauty there is on earth elsewhere, is 
only the work of her apprentices. Sunrise, noonday, 
twilight, and moonrise, on these Parthenopean shores are 
each so full of transcendant beauty, that once seen can 
never be replaced. Here in one day you have seen earth, 
sky, and w*ater, pass and dissolve through every gradation 
of color; not of Venetian intensity, but diaphanous, and 
only comparable to the iridescent waves of light that 
play upon sheets of mother-of-pearl. The beauty-intox- 
icated soul grows pensive in the contemplation. It is 
too lovely to be enduring; life is too brief to grasp it; 
how many thousands must die without beholding it. 
After all, is it not all a dream ? Are we still ^matter-of- 
fact Americans, soon to return to our prosaic and bread- 
winning life ? 

There are many points from which is had the triple 
view of the bay, the city and Vesuvius ; that from Castle 
Elmo best commands the city, but that which most grati- 
fied us was from the “Villa Nazionale,” a garden which 
retains the primal natural loveliness of Adam s home, 
adorned by the skill of his most cunning sons. The 
promenade at the base of the higher portions of the gar- 
den extends for a mile along the western part of the city 
and forms a sea-wall, like the New York battery. The 
sea breeze is just strong enough to open the rose leaves 
whose perfume mingling with the scent of oranges and 
flora to us unknown, oppresses the senses with almost 
enervating effect. Statues of undraped youth smile 
upon you from their marble pedestals which gleam like 
blocks of snow against the deep green of the bowers 
beyond. Selecting an elevated point, we get our first good 
view of the amphitheatre-terraces of the city, the sea and 
the beautiful, but terrible altar from which either smoke 
or fire eternally ascends. And this we see at sunset. 


142 


PARTHENOPEAN SHORES. 


“But you are not to write of such an every-day affair 
as a sunset ! ” exclaims the wearied reader. Ah ! but a 
sunset at Naples — Castle Elmo’s towers lined — No! 
To those friends who insist upon seeing this sunset as I 
saw it, I will forward fac-similes from my note-book. 

M. Taine, though I may have been a little severe in 
chiding your cruel treatment of the lichens, let me take 
shelter behind your classic shield ; be thou my interpreter 
of a Neapolitan sunset : “ I sat down on a bench. Even- 

ing was coming on, and in watching the fading tints it 
seemed as if I were in the Elysium fields of the ancient 
poets. Elegant forms of trees defined themselves clearly 
on the transparent azure. * * I seemed to be gazing 

on ancient Greek life, to comprehend the delicacy of 
their sensations, to find a never-ending study in the har- 
mony of these slender forms and fading tints. * * * 

Towards eight o’clock the breeze died away. The firm- 
ament seemed to be of lapis lazuli. The moon like an 
immaculate queen, shining alone in the azure, shed her 
silvery beams on the broad waters, and converted them 
into a glittering milky way. No words can express the 
grace and sweetness of the mountains enveloped in their 
last tints, the vague violet of the nocturnal robe. The 
mole and a forest of masts with their deep, dark reflec- 
tions rendered them still more charming, while the 
Chiaja on the right, sweeping around the gulf, together 
with its rows of illuminated houses, gave them a garland 
of flame. * * * The sky itself is a :ete. * * Ischia 

and her naked promontories on the extreme end repose in 
their lilac envelopes, like a slumbering Pompeian nymph 
under her veil. Veritably, to paint such nature as this, 
this violet continent extending around this broad lumin- 
ous water, one must employ the terms of the ancient poets 
and represent the great beneficent goddess enthroned by 
the eternal ocean, above them the serene effulgence of 
the dazzling Jupiter.” This you see through vines that lay 


AN EARLY SERENADER. 


143 


against the evening sky like draperies of black lace ; and 
you turn an indifferent eye at the life in the streets as you 
wend your way to the hotel, not willing that anything less 
beautiful should occupy the mind before another day. 

It would probably read very poetically that I was kept 
awake nearly all night by the ceaseless music of tam- 
bourines, guitars and songs in the streets; but truth is 
paramount to poetry ; and my wakefulness was less owing 
to these than to a company of invisible, but powerful- 
voiced serenaders in my room, who, I think, were genuine 
importations from the swamps of New Jersey, smuggled 
over by some of our party who desired to balance the ac- 
count with Europe for exporting to us so many of its own 
nuisances. It will be a safe argument that all tourists 
who write Italy as an unalloyed delight did not visit it in 
August, when, if some portions of your days are paradisi- 
cal, your nights are more likely to be compared to Hades. 

For several hours of the early morning I sat at my win- 
dow, viewing very many of the features of the land and 
waterscape, beheld the previous afternoon and evening 
under such different light, and which I enjoyed scarcely 
less for the reason there were no disturbing causes to 
divert the mind. Vesuvius was clearly outlined on the 
eastern sky, and in watching the advancing light of morn- 
ing the time sped all too quickly. The sun had not yet 
arisen when there came to my ears a strain so sad, so 
sweet and tremulous, that I thought I had never heard a 
voice so “ full of tears. ” Looking out I saw, far down, a 
woman with a babe in her arms ; she was not beautiful, 
for Nature has been so prodigal of her favors to the 
shores of Naples she had few left to bestow upon their 
women. Yet her eyes were bright and her hair of glis- 
tening black ; and it may be in happier days her form had 
corresponded with her voice. I threw her a few small 
coins, for which I was rewarded by a look of apparent 
heartfelt gratitude, and by another song, so rich in melo- 


144 


PARTHENOPEAN SHORES . 


dy as to be a fresh revelation of the power of the Italian 
tongue, even in the mouths of its lazaroni. Small as was 
the pittance I had thrown this early serenader, it would 
suffice to feed her and her babe for a day, and possibly a 
lazy husband lying upon his back looking up to the sunny 
sky over his worthless head. 

At the period of our visit at Naples, the first of 
August, melons and pears were at the height of their 
maturity ; I did not consider them better in flavor than 
our own. There are not many European fruits we could 
afford to exchange for our American apple. The grapes 
and figs, however, were delicious, which we enjoyed with 
a zest quite equal to that the early strawberry is greeted 
with at home in June. The Cava fig, of which a penny will 
buy a pound, is small and black, but very palatable, and 
the skin so delicate it can be easily eaten. An interesting 
legend is told in Cava concerning this fig. A delegation 
from one of the monasteries was dispatched to Rome to 
solicit a special Papal indulgence. To propitiate the 
head of the Church occupying the chair of St. Peter, a 
present was thought to be the best method to accomplish 
the work. After much discussion it was decided that the 
figs of Cava, hitherto unknown in Rome, would be the 
most novel gift, and in consequence of this resolve the 
friars entered the Vatican bearing a basket of the fruit, 
beseeching his Holiness to eat of the same while he heard 
their petition read. As the holy father listened he 
munched away at the fruit, the friars exchanging con- 
gratulatory grimaces at the evident satisfaction of the 
prelate who inquired where such delightful fruit was 
grown. “At Cava, your Holiness,” quickly responded 
the petitioners in unison, already speculating upon the 
triumphant result of their visit. 

“Well, then, our good brothers at Sorrento must be 
vigilant, else their gardens will lose their celebrity in this 
new rival,” exclaimed his Holiness, selecting a fresh fig 


ITALIAN SKIES. 


145 


from the basket which immediately disappeared from view 
as he inquired if the fruit was plentiful. 

“ Very plentiful, your Holiness,” responded the elder of 
the friars, with a low obeisance. 

“Ah, yes, your Holiness,” quickly added the other, not 
to be outdone by his brother friars, “ so plentiful that the 
peasants feed them to their pigs.” 

“ Indeed ! ” thundered the irate dignitary ; “ and you 
bring, then, to the Head of the Church, the pig-food of 
Cava!” 

An hour later the poor chop-fallen friars sat with their 
feet in the stocks, while the servants of the Vatican pelted 
them with the residue of their fruit. “And as the poor 
friars were struck now in the eye, now on the mouth, 
now on the nose, now on the forehead, they kept saying to 
each other: ‘Thank God, brother, that we selected figs 
as a present ; had we brought water-melons, we should 
have been brained to a certainty ! ’ ” 

If I have made little allusion to the environs of Naples, 
it has been, perhaps, because of inability to do adequate 
justice to them. Under that brilliant sky the most 
common objects are touched with a peculiar beauty. 
There are multitudes of abodes of poverty, as in the 
city, but here the humblest cottage will have its little 
trellis or arbor of jessamine, and roses, and grape-vine, 
which grow in this hot-house of nature with a luxuriance 
we can never know in our Northern latitude. Our drives 
in the suburbs were among the chief delights of the 
visit, from the wonderful scenery of which one could 
never tire. We are not alone. All the world seems to 
be at Naples, and all in carriages ; gondolas at Venice, 
carriages at Naples. I thought in the city, that people 
rode to escape the terrible importunities of the beggars, 
some of whom are too hideous with disgusting sores 
to look upon. But this does not avail, and by various 
stratagems they contrive to get access to the occupants 


146 


PAETHENOPEAN SHORES. 


whenever a temporary halt is made or speed slackened. 
Such poverty as that of Naples is unknown in our land; 
did anything like it exist in our severer clime the suffer- 
ing would be frightful ; but here a few rags are ample 
for clothing; and what we would pay for postage on. a 
single letter would keep a person from starving for a 
day. 

1 have alluded to the brilliance of the Italian skies ; 
but in truth they are not more bright than our own. 
They have, however, a transparent softness which is not 
observable in our atmosphere. The impression of the 
exceeding brilliance of the sky of Italy was made upon 
our people in earlier times before they travelled much 
themselves, by the English who, going from foggy London, 
were dazed by the purity of Southern sunlight. The 
intelligent English who have of late visited our shores, 
have dwelt with enthusiasm upon the vividness of our 
skies, and the electrical qualities of the atmosphere, so 
opposite to the humid air of Great Britain. 

The Largo del Mercato, the scene of such excitement 
during Masaniello’s rebellion, is a locality of considerable 
interest to the antiquary ; but too full of low life to tempt 
the tourist to prolong his stay within its precincts. I 
would rather sit at the hotel Avindow and listen to the 
hand-organ murdering the beautiful overture to Auber’s 
opera celebrating the history of the rebel fisherman. 

The visit to the National Museum, formerly the Museo 
Borbonico, was repaid by positive benefit. It is a re- 
markable collection. Here, as is well known, are deposited 
the furniture, paintings, statuary, jewels, and other objects 
found at Pompeii. They are the subject of a volume. 
Many of our most elegant designs of jewelry are copied 
from that which laid buried so many centuries under the 
ashes of Vesuvius. The beauty and variety of articles 
pertaining to a lady’s toilet are astonishing. Those ladies 
who take special delight in the diversified labors of the 


ILLUSIONS. 


147 


kitchen, would find material for days of profitable study 
in the department containing the household utensils, by 
the aid of which the Pompeians served up their magnifi- 
cent banquets. About five thousand different designs 
in pottery are exhibited, including the articles for savings 
banks, whose deposits could not be got at without break- 
ing the bank, and quite similar to the little jugs which 
our children use for similar purpose. The elder Dr. 
Valentine Mott said of the surgical instruments, that 
they were, in some respects, better adapted for the 
purposes for which they were intended than those made 
in our own time. A box of pills shows that this luxury- 
loving people were not exempt from ills which attack 
plainer folk. 

Among the mural paintings are designs of exceeding 
beauty, and others of a more quaint and humorous char- 
acter.; in one instance a boy is represented as undergoing 
a flogging. It is to be feared that many Pompeian “ chil- 
dren of an older growth ” escaped a similar castigation to 
which they were justly entitled, until Vesuvius came and 
made amends. 

Ascending to the higher floors of the museum, we 
find many paintings of the later Italian school, including 
noted masterpieces. Notwithstanding the great heat, 
and that it w^as the season when one would suppose 
artists would seek cooler resorts for study, there were 
several painters busy copying. A copy of Correggio’s 
Madonna pleased me so greatly that I purchased it upon 
the easel, and it has ever since been cherished as the most 
valued souvenir of the trip ; the expression of Mary’s 
face is almost touching in its depth of maternal love. 

If Venice is less beautiful than the Bay of Naples, 

I should prefer it to a permanent residence here. Better 
sink into the Adriatic, than to be blown up or buried 
by Vesuvius. Its disease is chronic. There were erup- 
tions before there were historic pens to describe them. 


148 


part hen ope an shores. 


The Neapolitans are said to be never so pious as when 
Vesuvius is uneasy. Of Neapolitan piety, however, one 
cannot have high estimate. The common priests met 
with in the streets inspire nothing less than repugnance. 
Many of the three hundred churches are in truth very 
splendid ; but no art can reconcile us to the lack of any- 
thing resembling a true and vital religion. Some of our 
missionaries ought to disembark here before proceeding 

further east. , _ 

It was a real deprivation to leave Naples without a 
visit to Ischia, which Lamartine’s poetic tale of “ Graziella, 
the Maid of Ischia, ” has invented with an interest in har- 
mony with its picturesque beauty. The island is plain- 
ly visible from the shore, and at all times, and under all 
lights, an object of great beauty. Since our visit it has 
been devastated by a terrible earthquake which destroyed 
several hundred lives (March, 1881). 

A peculiarity of the foliage around Naples that particu- 
larly struck me, was the transparency of the leaves; that 
is you seem to see the light beyond ; an effect not unlike 
that noticed in our public squares illuminated by the elec- 
tric light. But very few of these beautiful illusions that 
are not partially nullified by a repulsive sight or smell. 

The flower girls of Naples we had so often sketched in 
fancy! Well, their bouquets are very, very pretty. 
How these ideal creations are shattered by inexorable 
fact ! There is so little at Naples that bears analysis. 
The fishermen you think so idyllic are pursuing their 
vocation at the mouths of the city sewers which vomit 
untold horrors. The not young nor lovely flower girl has 
come from an abode which, if you entered it, would be 
at the expense of a night’s sleep. Children, so small they 
can scarcely bear their own weight, swarm with lesser 
creation, as does a bough upon which has lit a migrating 
colony of bees. 

Let us enter upon less repugnant scenes. The out-door 


DEPRESSING SCENES. 


149 


life of the upper classes we can best observe on the 
Toledo, the Broadway and Rotten Row of the city. 
There is no more elegance thailn may be seen in Central 
Park drives on an October Saturday afternoon ; but more 
animation. The carriages are light and open ; the drivers 
and footmen in brilliant liveries that harmonize in studied 
contrast with the toilettes of the occupants, whose crimson- 
lined parasols give a roseate hue coming with the sun 
and going with the same. Boys, nude to the waist, with 
one hand upon the carriage-door, thrust their bouquets 
into the very faces of the ladies who are forced to fling 
coin to be rid of their embarrassing importunity. Here 
comes a barouche with four well-fed Englishmen, the 
veritable John Bulls of Punch ; and here in their wake, a 
less showy vehicle, with five of our friends from Indiana 
and Illinois, as remarkable for their longitude as the 
Londoners for their latitude. Were we better versed in 
Continental nationalities, no doubt the representatives of 
every state in Europe could be singled out as easily as 
the Parisian elegante and the Broadway exquisite are 
recognized. For whom do these latter air their graces? 
It must have been one of these the Turk used for 
admonition : “ My son,” said he, “ should you ever forget 
God and the Prophet, you may come to look like that.” 

On comes the merry throng, a double stream of 
equipages passing and returning, some followed by cav- 
aliers mounted upon daintily-stepping horses which seem 
to look with disdain upon the donkeys bearing younger 
scions of the family; but unlike the wilful donkeys of 
Chamounix, these never retaliate. They are humble, and 
never “ put on airs ; ” they know their place and keep it. 
A well-bred horse would no sooner accept a theory of 
descent from this despised brute than an aesthete would 
admit the ape as his remote progenitor. 

But we are not at Naples to see Americans, Europeans, 
or exquisites, nor to discuss theories and donkeys ; so let 


150 


PARTHENOPEAN SHORES. 


us follow along the Stracla di Roma until reaching one of 
the streets at the left, which will lead us to Castle Elmo. 
To satisfy your curiosity we advance a little way previ- 
ously into one of the narrow streets leading down to the 
Bay. You need not be told to gather up your skirts; 
were you sightless you have another sense that would not 
fail to put you on your guard. Was not your investment 
at Cologne the best? If Niagara could only flow down 
from yonder heights for a day ! The human hives, the 
occupants nearly all drones, have swarmed into the 
streets. There are no homes here, in the Anglo-Saxon 
sense. The most private domestic details are here 
performed under no less an open roof than the sky. So 
common is the sight of mothers examining the lively heads 
of their offsprings that a master has. represented (in the 
UfAzi at Florence) a lovely Yenus performing the same 
scrutiny over the head of her son Cupid. Not any of the 
large boys and girls are more than half clothed, and the 
smaller ones toddling about are as nude as the statues 
along the walks of the Villa Nazionale; but there the 
resemblance ceases ; for the statues are either kept clean 
by the rain or the garden hose. Beneath a window, in 
Avhich a rotten red cotton curtain hangs in strips, lies a man 
upon a filthy straw mattress, his knees forming the apex of 
a pyramid ; his pantaloons terminate at the same point, the 
ragged edges showing that the missing portions literally 
decayed on his body. Women, whose attire cannot be 
described, sit in the thresholdless doorways, cleaning 
fishes and cutting vegetables, the refuse lying at their 
feet, half blackened with monstrous flies. Goats, which 
nothing short of fumigation would make tolerable, en- 
deavor to thrust their impudent noses into your hand. 
Groups are collected around steaming kettles of macaroni 
and compounds of meat and vegetables which at home 
would be thought unfit for swine, but which is devoured 
with more zest than a bon vivant would display at the 


PICTURESQUE EPISODE. 


151 


most costly banquet of Delmonico. Yet this is Italy, the 
home of Poetry and Art ! In an hour you can reach the 
groves in which Virgil invoked his Muse. 

With a vow, without any mental reservation, that you 
will never eat macaroni nor fish within a hundred leagues 
of N aples, you leave these infernos of stench and squalor. 
We have nothing in America with which to compare such 
scenes. New York has districts peopled by European 
paupers, but their surroundings are less brutish. Let us 
thank the painters who hang their Neapolitan studies in 
Beacon Hill and Fifth avenue parlors that they are not 
obliged to incorporate into their pictures the scent and 
disgusting filthiness they must necessarily encounter. Our 
nation opens its arms to all the world, but there is no 
element here of utility for us. Murray says there are no 
more lazaroni at Naples. The sun never sets on Naples 
without its last ray falling upon fifty thousand men, 
women and children as I have described; and if the city 
has ever had a more degraded class, the wonder is that 
Vesuvius*has been so long forbearing. 

It is a long walk to Elmo, and we see much of street 
life as we advance, but of a better character than that 
nearer the Bay. In a sort of an open space or common, 
left unbuilt, we sat down upon a rough-hewn marble block 
to rest. Our companions, or many of them, were at the 
same moment having a more formidable climb to the 
crater of Vesuvius, whose double cone we can easily 
discern in the East. The rear of lofty houses looks out 
upon two sides of this common, their plain stuccoed 
yellowish walls relieved by red-and- white awnings hung 
over the windows. Passers-by drop in as we have done, 
until quite a crowd has assembled watching a man 
manipulate some pasteboard figures which dance to the 
hideous strains he produces from a species of bag-pipe 
even less melodious than that of Scotland. The Punchi- 
nello, identified with Naples, did not appear; but Mr. and 


152 


PA R TIIENOPEAN SHORES. 


Mrs. Pasteboard afforded no end of amusement to the 
native on-lookers. Now and then the performer would 
suspend his music and improvise a dialogue for his figures. 
Against a high garden wall a party of boys were practicing 
gymnastic tricks, standing upon their heads and climb- 
ing upon the shoulders of their comrades, three and 
four deep. Several were lying upon the ground, 
while others tossed figs which the prostrate ones caught 
in their mouths, in precisely the manner in which a son of 
Emperor Claudius lost his life at Naples ; he was catching 
pears in his mouth, when one sank so far it choked him 
to death. What most engaged our attention was a nimble 
youth who was evidently imitating an opera dancer. 
With a piquant air he takes hold of his trousers at the 
knee, while the other hand is held archly over his head ; 
suddenly he starts forward and rests in the exact pose of 
the “ Plying Hercules,” wonderful in its unconscious grace ; 
now he advances in successive leaps, clutching at some 
imagined objects in the air, which, pretending to have 
caught, he throws upon the ground, crushing the invisible 
atom with his foot as he advances to grasp another 
victim. It was afterwards made known that he was 
imitating a female dancer whose favorite invention was 
called the “ Butterfly Dance.” The youth was undoubted- 
ly an artist’s model ; every movement was of inimitable 
grace, and so artistic that it seems incredible that the 
highest professional skill could excel it; his blue jacket 
was buttonless, but had a tiny bouquet in one of the 
button-holes. Under the awnings were seen the faces of 
good-looking servant girls, who watched the youth with 
greater interest than they bestowed upon the old piper, 
and we concluded that we should have to go farther east 
than Naples to get away from human nature. 

At last we reach the castle, which looks best when seen 
from a distance. But the view it commands is incompar- 
able. Here are the same bay, islands, sky, cliffs, moun- 


A POET’S HEAVEN. 


153 


tains and garland of cities seen the day before from the 
Villa Nazionale ; but only a kaleidoscope could show an 
equal change of color, which to me must ever remain the 
great beauty and marvel of the shores of Naples. Do 
not hasten ; drink long and deep; for never 'again on 
earth will you come so near a seeming heaven. As you 
see it, so Rogers saw it when he wrote under the inspira- 
tion of the scenes before us : 


“ This region surely is not of the earth; 

Has it not dropped from Heaven? not a grove, 
Citron, or pine, or cedar, not a grot, 

Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine, 
But breathes enchantment.” 


Ah, dolce Napoli! Had we seen only these! And 
could we forget that thy beautiful flowers but cover a 
corpse ! 


POMPEII. 



Y desire to make the journey from Naples to 


1VA Pompeii — a distance of thirteen miles — in a 
carriage met with so little sympathy from the rest of 
our party that my purpose to study the topography of 
the intervening country was abandoned. The ride by 
rail, under a broiling August sun, was so uncomfortable 
that nothing but its brevity made it tolerable. The ashes 
that swallowed up the doomed city would seem to be 
yet in the atmosphere, in the form of fine dust, that beset 
us in a sort of milky- way shower the entire distance. 

I could not help wondering what Pliny, wdth his 
microscopic eye, would say could he return and see us 
passing through the gate near the railway station, and 
entering the streets of Pompeii, in which may yet be 
traced the ruts made by the Roman chariots. If the 
catastrophe had occurred in our own land the city would 
have been as quickly rebuilt as Chicago, and at less cost ; 
for little is needed to restore the houses to their pristine 
condition but to replace the roofs and doors. As for the 
windows, their number was few at the most. The build- 
ings are of brick, stuccoed without, and the interior walls 
covered with plaster of such admirable mixture that the 
best modern skill cannot emulate it. No wonder that the 
Pompeian artists used so little canvas when such a 
tempting surface was always spread before them. I do 
not understand how the idea could have originated that 
these frescoes were the work of common house-decorators, 
who copied the choicest designs of Greek art. If they 


154 


MURAL PAINTINGS. 


loo 

were copyists only, then they were the best the world has 
any knowledge of. Our American millionaires, whose 
dwellings now in progress on the Pacific slope and in 
New York bid fair to surpass the abodes of royalty, can 
command no skill in Europe by which they can excel the 
elegance of these mural paintings. 

The walls of Pompeii have been traced on all sides but 
that facing the sea; they were from fifteen to twenty 
feet in thickness, and sufficiently formidable to keep out 
any foe save that which overwhelmed them. The city 
was entered by six gates. The “ Herculaneum Gate,” 
which is nearest the sea, is the terminus of a road lined 
with tombs, many of which are seemingly as perfect as 
on the day they themselves were entombed. Here and 
there you see a tomb in the style often reproduced in our 
own cemeteries ; yet one wonders if the fondly-cherished 
memorials of our beloved dead, or those that reverent 
hands may rear over us, will have such tangible existence 
eighteen centuries hence. 

The site of Pompeii is nearly as commanding as that 
of Naples — originally on a plateau of lava, from prehis- 
toric eruptions, which rose above the sea, so near that 
every breeze from it swept through the streets and forum. 
Around you are all the natural features which made the 
region so celebrated in the days of Virgil. The water 
we drank here was the best we had in Italy — not even 
excepting that delicious draught we had from the well 
in the cellar of our hotel at Naples. Where such cool, 
sparkling water can have ‘its source, with the fiery heart 
of Vesuvius but five miles away, is a marvel. The pipes 
that conveyed these streams into the bath-houses are 
often found in good condition, showing that the frequent 
charges brought against the work done by our plumbers 
to-day were not merited by the ancient artisans. Indeed, 
there is no evidence of sham work anywhere at Pompeii. 
So admirable is the preservation of the city that the 


POMPEII. 


136 

imagination has little to do in realizing its exact appear- 
ance before the dire tragedy of 79. Pliny, with all his 
eloquent detail, cannot equal the realism before you. 
Had the result of the successive deluge of fire, ashes and 
stone been an event of 1879, and the city immediately 
uncovered, the painted walls of the houses would be no 
more vividly distinct than are those which were brought 
to the light of day but a short time before our visit, 
when first exposed. The walls of many buildings are 
intact, only the roofs lacking. There is no inhospitality, 
for the city literally keeps “ open doors.” It is rude, 
however, this impudent way of ours of entering strangers’ 
houses. There has been a plague, or some other calamity 
has forced their owners to flee for safety. The danger is 
past, and they may at any moment return with their 
household goods to occupy their old homes. Diomede 
can find some of his wine-jars in the cellar of his villa 
just where he placed them ; and his neighbors can furnish 
their own houses with their original furniture if the direc- 
tors of the National Museum at Naples will grant a 
permit. Chicago nor Boston, the next day after their 
conflagrations, w T ere not half so habitable in the devas- 
tated regions. Here is an oven as perfect as any you 
could find in the New England kitchens of the last cent- 
ury ; and the very loaves baked in it eighteen hundred 
years ago, with the stamps still legible that distinguish 
those made from wheat flour from those of bean flour, 
you may see at Naples. How easy to repeople these 
streets with their original population ; to see the avari- 
cious iEries Diomede returning from the forum and 
entering his villa we have just left ! We are continually 
asking if the Pompeians are our contemporaries, or are we 
contemporary with them ? 

In nothing was I disappointed of my conjectural Pom- 
peii, based upon visits to the Naples museum, save in the 
coloring of the frescoes ; they are faded, but much less 


POLITICAL INSCRIPTIONS. 


157 


than would appear natural considering their centuries of 
entombment, and more than a century’s exposure to the 
sun of Southern Italy. The costly folio now being pub- 
lished at Naples, a portion of which, superbly bound, I 
have recently seen in the trustees’ room of the Boston 
Library, reproduces many o? these frescoes with photo- 
graphic accuracy, but with exaggerated color. The 
exquisite beauty of these designs, the delicate outlines, the 
endless blending of animal life with fruit and flowers, can 
only be understood upon the spot. In their contracted 
sleeping-rooms, and in some other details of domestic life, 
the Pompeians were denied the higher comforts of home 
so prized by the English and Americans ; but for the 
luxury of their baths and the elegance of house decora- 
tion we have nothing to compare. In one of the houses 
we entered, in an apartment corresponding to an Ameri- 
can extension parlor, the walls were found as perfect as 
on the day the artists had rejoiced the owner by announc- 
ing their work completed. If our artisans to-day can 
manage to prolong their labor to such tantalizing length, 
how must it have been here with these artists of elaborate 
and minute designs ? On the wall, which, from its posi- 
tion, was protected from the sun, the coloring was 
admirably fresh — a ground of deep-red, with panels of 
yellow bordered in wide stripes of black, through which 
extended a delicate green vine. An open window looked 
into a court raised two or three feet above the ground- 
floor. In the centre of this court was a line of columns 
without a cornice, entirely disconnected from each other 
and the main structure. 

From the frequency of political inscriptions, and names 
of candidates for office found in public resorts, some 
antiquaries have been led to argue that the city was de- 
stroyed at a period of election. The populace were not 
content with shouting their preferences in the forum, but 
have written in characters easily deciphered, that So-and- 


158 


POMPEII. 


So is most eligible for aedile: “ Paratus nominates Pansa; 
Philippus prefers Caius Aprasius Felix; Valentinus, with 
his pupils, chooses Sabinus and Rufus.” 

The patricians did not have it all their own way. The 
muleteers, the fruiterers, the carpenters and truckmen 
have their candidate, and have no diffidence in electioneer- 
ing in his interest ; and he is declared so immaculate, so 
unexceptionable, that an American constituency would 
wonder how a man of such character had got into politics. 
The inscription announcing that the “ Sleepers declare for 
Vatia,” has never been satisfactorily explained by the 
erudite. How did the “ sleepers ” of Pompeii compare 
with the Yankee “wide awakes?” It is possible the 
“ sleepers ” were an offshoot from the established party — 
the “stalwarts” and “half-breeds” of the time. That 
some of our political systems of reward are not without 
precedent, this translated line will show : “ Make Sabinus 
aedile, O Proculus, and he may make thee such.” While 
this is the principle of nine-tenths of our New York ward 
politicians, it may be doubted if they would have the 
candor to inscribe their sentiments upon the walls of the 
new Court-house. When Polybius was running for aedile 
his election was urged on the plea that “ he would bring 
in good bread.” I am wondering if he took the stump 
himself, or emulated a Connecticut Senatorial nominee of 
whom it was said that he won his election by his finesse. 
Among his rural constituency he promised that, if elected, 
he would have such measures adopted as would ensure the 
highest price for their butter and cheese ; in the cities he 
ingratiated himself with the wealthy classes by his 
promise of “ getting things fixed ” so that they could buy 
their cheese and butter at a lower rate than ever before. 

Many of the houses at Pompeii take their names from 
some particular fresco or statue found within ; others 
from that of their owner at the period of eruption. One 
is known as the “111 Swept House,” owing to the frag- 


AMERICAN HOUSEKEEPERS. 159 

ments of food found upon the floor when exhumed ; if 
the housekeeper could have known her untidiness was to 
be so publicly proclaimed to the world, nearly two thou- 
sand years later, she would doubtless have been more 
vigilant. There were many practical housekeepers in our 
party, and their comments upon Pompeian domestic life 
would sound strangely in the ears of the Diomedes, the 
Sallusts, and other noted citizens of the dug-up city, could 
they return and have cognizance of what is daily occur- 
ring in their sanctum-sanctorums. I do not think any of 
us who pride ourselves upon the immaculate condition of 
our kitchens would care to have them subjected to such 
ordeals as are frequent here. * 

In the winter the number of laborers at Pompeii 
amounts to several hundreds, and when a house or wall is 
exposed a stir is made among the onlookers. Some forty 
or fifty were at work in various parts, at the time we 
were there, but the exhumations did not appear to be in 
very active progress. One street was being uncovered ; 
the debris removed in baskets by boys, who dumped their 
contents into rough cars which are drawn by mules out 
of the city over an inclined railway. A little Yankee dis- 
cipline would not be amiss in the superintendence of this 
woik, although no doubt the amount of labor performed 
is well proportioned to the pay. A bust bearing a strik- 
ing resemblance to Caesar, with facial characteristics of 
William H. Seward and Charles Sumner, had been re- 
cently discovered in the court of a house we saw ; two 
bronzed-arm young men were seated by a classic urn, 
their half-filled baskets of ashes and lava near by, listlessly 
dipping their hands into the water of the urn supplied 
by a spring which the storm of fire had not quenched. 
In the background Vesuvius keeps puffing away, as if 
chuckling to himself how easily he could repeat his work 
of 79, and engulf Naples as he did Pompeii. 

The world is full of doubting Thomases. There are 


160 


POMPEII . 


surgeons who argue that men have no souls because theii 
knives do not discover them ; skeptics, who are not friends 
to the tenets of our faith, inquire why profane history 
does not contain more authentic record of the life and 
death of Jesus. They certainly cannot doubt the exist- 
ence of Pompeii, nor the means by which it was 
destroyed. From the comparatively few bodies found it 
is quite certain that the bulk of the population escaped in 
safety. This event occurred less than half a century 
after the crucifixion. Now, why, by the same argument, 
should we not have the testimony of other survivors than 
Pliny ? 

The theatres are less spacious than those of many other 
Roman cities, but it is known that the Greek drama was 
produced here in the best style known to the ancients. 
The impressiveness of the opening scene in the “ iEdijms 
Tyrannus ” of Sophocles, lately acted at Harvard Univer- 
sity, is particularly mentioned in the annals of the Pom- 
peian stage. The Greek origin of Naples would naturally 
cause the Greek drama to share with the Roman in 
popularity in the vicinity. The seats and general features 
of Pompeian theatres are well preserved. It appears 
that the middle classes brought their cushions with them 
when attending the play. The custom of a noble Amer- 
ican philanthropist in carrying a cushion for his use at 
public meetings has long beeen a standing ridicule by car- 
icaturists ; they might be less merciless did they consider 
there are classic precedents. 

It might have been better taste to have made allusion to 
the religious rites of the Pompeians before noticing their 
theatres ; but the impression that any but a blind person 
would have in Pompeii would be that they had no religion 
worth speaking of. There is no evidence inscribed upon 
the tombs beyond the Herculaneum Gate that, gives hope 
that any of these Romans looked forward to a future 
existence. On every side are proofs of their proficiency 


FAITHFUL MEN. 161 

in the arts. How difficult to reconcile with this their 
pagan principles ! Let our eyes be ever open to the truth 
that the highest culture is of no avail to individuals or 
nations, without it is based upon the vital laws of Chris- 
tianity. 

The man of Pompeii whose character has been most 
admired is the sentinel who was found dead at his post, 
in a niche at the gate leading to the tombs ; it is the tribute 
the world is ever ready to pay to fidelity to trust, and it 
was in the expectation that our lamented Garfield would 
have been equally faithful that prompted the nation to 
break its alabaster-box over his bier. 

We wandered from house to house, every moment dis- 
covering fresh objects of interest. Here let me say that 
no person should enter these houses without having pre- 
viously visited the museum at Naples, and thus have a 
thorough knowledge of what their contents were. A 
month would not suffice to thoroughly study them. The 
house of Holconius, less noticed than that of Diomede, is 
interesting from the consummate taste of its owner. 

The roofs that have been placed over some of the 
buildings, to protect them from the elements, are very 
rude; in little harmony with the original walls; but, rude 
as they were, they afforded grateful shelter from the 
August sun, and beneath one we sat down upon a marble 
step for a quiet lunch brought from Naples. The spectacle 
of two hundred American men and women exploring the 
kitchens, bedrooms and cellars of Pompeii is no every-day 
occurrence. A week’s camping-out here among the ruins 
would suffice to obliterate all consciousness of America 
and the nineteenth century. 

Were I to single out any one article of household use at 
Pompeii, it would be their lamps of varied designs which 
our best skill is powerless to surpass. The bronze busts 
used for weights, with their steelyards, and the common 
kitchen spoons, fashioned after the neck of a swan, are 


162 


POMPEII. 


objects of admiration ; but the lamps, with their elegant 
chains, elicit positive enthusiasm. Who would not desire 
to consume the “midnight oil” when burned in such 
receptacles as these ? Fit theme for the poet Lingg, who 
thus addresses his Pompeian lamp : — 

Dost thou recall thine ancient dwelling ? 

From out a mask of marble made, 

A sweet-voiced crystal stream came welling, 

And murmuring through the night it played 
In the arcade. 

Dost thou recall the student hoary 

Who held thee when he stooped to seek 
The rolled papyrus’ treasured story, 

Broke seal-wax and was wont to speak 
In classic guile ? 

The same vigilance that prevented our carrying off the 
twenty-ton stones of the Verona amphitheatre was the 
means of our leaving Pompeii with not so much as a lava 
pebble. It looks as if some of the English and American 
tourists who have preceded us left their honesty at home, 
judging from the Argus eyes that have followed our party 
from the Clyde to the Tiber. 

While it is impossible not to admire the almost incom- 
parable taste of the Pompeians, as displayed in their 
paintings and statues, we cannot shut our eyes to the 
unmistakable evidence that nothing less than the fire 
rained down upon the doomed cities of Palestine could 
have purified this whited sepulchre. 


THE CAPITAL OF CAPITALS. 


T HERE are two cities of the world on approaching 
which the traveller is impressed in a manner no other 
sensations or experiences can produce — Rome and Jerusa- 
lem. The former has for Americans an unique interest. In 
the Roman republic we behold that historical cartoon of 
national grandeur which, in the natural course of events, 
oui own is likely to parallel. May we be spared the awful 
shadows that veiled the Rome of Caesar in perpetual night ! 
An English writer says that he has known Americans to 
come to Rome and return without visiting Paris. For a 
people so utilitarian, so little given to sentiment, this is a 
remarkable manifestation. But it is not the Rome of the 
nineteenth century that fires the American heart. He 
goes to stand upon the Palatine Hill and build up the 
Rome of Vespasian. It matters not that her seven hills 
are now no more prominent than the traditional three 
mounts of Boston. We have imagination and history; 
and upon the ruins before us dull must be the mind that 
cannot restore the past. 

a ture offers little to produce abnormal excitement as 
you near the Eternal City — the wide untilled plains, bleak 
hills and ruined aqueducts are quite a different scene from 
what we have left behind in Tuscany. A little stir is 
made as the cry “ There’s Rome ! ” runs through the car. 
Sleepy eyes are unclosed, and languid heads are raised 
from extemporized pillows to peer out of the windows. 
The hills grow softer; white villas are seen in the midst 
of high-walled gardens ; towers and roofs come into view ; 

163 


164 


THE CAPITAL OF CAPITALS. 


then a huge dome — St. Peter’s. But so busy are we in 
picking up our scattered portables, that we can only give 
a half-glance at the wonderful work of Michael Angelo. 

I was not at all surprised that we must enter Rome 
through a hole in an old wall ; in a city so much read of, 
thought of, and speculated upon, if all normal laws had 
been found reversed it would have caused little wonder. 
No sooner were we landed at the hotel than it was 
announced that we were at once to depart for Naples, 
consequently our first visit to Rome comprised no more 
than is here set down. I have elsewhere written so 
minutely of our visit at Naples that the reader will rejoice 
to be spared any repetition of it here. Glad as I should 
have been to have continued eastward from Pompeii until 
our eyes rested upon Jerusalem, the heat, and its debil- 
itating effects upon my son, forced me to return with the 
rest of the party. How often on the return to Rome did 
we long for a draught of that delicious water in the cellar 
of our hotel at Naples. Every stage of our journey now 
brings us nearer home. We did not know What a beauti- 
ful bird the American eagle is until noticing it upon the 
uniform of an United States officer stepping on board the 
train which bore us none too quickly from Neapolitan 
loveliness and misery. Home, like all blessings, we must 
be deprived of for a time in order to appreciate it. On 
arriving at the station we were in some doubt if Rome 
had not been taken by the banditti. We were assailed by 
the most ferocious set of beggars to be found in Europe ; 
they seized all our lighter luggage in the face of emphatic 
protests and gesticulations to let it alone, and carried it to 
the carriages in waiting to transport us to the hotel. A 
few pence thrown into the street leaves us in peace, and 
we drive off under cover of their fighting and scrambling 
for the pittance. Such is our introduction to the study of 
Rome. 

Having occasion to use my letter of credit, I proceeded 


SHOPPING IN POME. 


165 


to the banker’s, where I had the pleasure of meeting the 
American Consul, an old acquaintance met years before 
in New York. It was very pleasant to receive courtesy 
from the representative of the youngest republic here 
amid the ruins of the oldest. He assured me it was 
eztremely hazardous to venture out under an August sun 
at an hour when Roman ladies would not think of such 
exposure. We were in Rome, but we were certainly not 
“ doing as the Romans do.” Yet there were plenty more 
who were equally reckless in the defiance of all sanitary 
laws. The Via Babuino (street of the baboon) was 
crowded with women shopping with all the zest those 
ladies display who come into town daily from the suburbs 
of our home cities. The cameos and mosaics we pur- 
chased were beautiful, but made a serious inroad upon 
replenished purses. 

After a visit to the forlorn site of the Theatre of Mar- 
cellus, and the bridge spanning the Tiber, on which are 
ranged the very dirty angels of Berini, we found our- 
selves at the Scala Santa, the church containing the holy 
stairs claimed to have been brought from the house of 
Pilate at Jerusalem and trod by our Saviour on his way 
to be judged. It is thought they were brought here by 
Helena. They are formed of white Syrian marble, and 
in order to prevent their total destruction by the cease- 
less tread of pilgrims, they are protected by wooden 
planks. Openings edged with brass expose the marble, 
which may be touched with the lips of the devout who 
kiss it with streaming eyes. No ascent can be made but 
on the knees, and it was with mingled feelings of pathos 
and regret that we saw the weary climbers toiling 
upward. The descent is made by one of the side stair- 
cases. I think it was the same young man of our party 
who explored the Heidelberg Tun that climbed the holy 
stairs on his knees, and leaving his cap at the top, had to 
make the same journey in order to recover it. Whatever 


ICC THE CAPITAL OF CAPITALS. 

doubt there may be of the authenticity of the stairs, they 
certainly are interesting in the memories they recall. 
What would become of them were they not covered may 
be seen in the steps of the west vestibule of the Wash- 
ington Capitol, where the marble is actually worn to a 
depth of several inches below its original surface. 

Opposite the Scala Santa is the Lateran Palace, and 
in the centre of the piazza of the Lateran is the Egyptian 
obelisk, brought, with many others, from Egypt nearly 
two thousand years ago, as trophies of Roman conquest. 
Since the greatest skill of England and America has been 
tasked in bringing similar works to London and New 
York, it would be interesting to know how the Romans 
floated their Cleopatra needles over the Mediterranean. 

We did not need the assurance of the guide that the 
Tarpeian Rock was near the Capitol ; every school child 
knows that. Yet I could wish I had taken the suggestion 
of a companion, and the earnest request of my son, both 
satiated with sight-seeing for the day, and gone to our 
hotel instead of visiting the Rock. You may see it your- 
self, if you have not already ; if you have, you probably 
experienced the same disappointment as awaited us ; in 
historic days it was more formidable. 

There would seem to be no resurrection for Rome, 
whatever there may be in store for Italy. She can only 
pose for a ruin. There is no vitality but in her memories. 
Out of the ruins of the Baths of Diocletian have been 
built walls, palaces and churches which have themselves 
fallen into decay. It is true, Rome has her modern 
quarters, and new roofs are covered daily ; and each 
census adds more figures to the population. But what is 
this when you look upon the Pantheon and Colosseum 
and think of the ancient city, with its fifty miles of walls ! 
There is a pensive dignity in this “ Niobe of Nations ” 
which all the melancholy consequences of her fall cannot 
obliterate. Every feature of the city and the life of its 


MIASMA. 


167 


inhabitants were to us of novel interest ; but of this 
our distinguished countryman has taken care, in his inimi- 
table w Roba di Roma,” that there should be nothing left 
unwrit of. 

Prudence did not permit an excursion into the Campagna, 
for fear of the miasma of which such alarming stories are 
told. But we could not be frightened into excluding the 
night air from our sleeping apartments, as warned to do ; 
we argued that nothing could be more deadly than the 
vitiated atmosphere of the shut-up corridors. 

The Baths of Caracalla are equally as impressive as the 
Colosseum. Mere figures are inadequate to convey a 
conception of their extent. The surface they covered would 
probably exceed twice the area of Madison square in New 
York. These now denuded walls were originally adorned 
with multitudes of statues, and all the luxurious appliances 
for enjoyment were concentrated ’within the portals. 
Two thousand bathers could be accommodated in one 
department at once; libraries, gymnasiums and other 
institutions were included in this vast thermal establish- 
ment, which, upon a grander scale, afforded most of the 
conveniences of the club-houses of our day. In some of 
the hot baths of Germany little tables are sent floating 
around the baths from which the submerged patients take 
their refreshments with more ease than they Would display 
in the dining-room. I do not know if the Romans had a 
similar custom; but it is not probable that anything 
tending to add to luxury or comfort was unknown in their 
regimen. It is not certain at what exact period the 
excessive use of the bath began to decline with the 
Romans. Some argue that it was in consequence of the 
advance of Christianity; that in emulating saints and 
martyrs it was meet to ignore the care of the body, 
notwithstanding the vital truth that “ cleanliness is akin 
to godliness.” If water were a deadly enemy to man, 
the modern Italian could have no less affinity for it. If 


168 THE CAPITAL OF CAPITALS. 

the Baths of Diocletian were restored they would remain 
unused in this age. 

Many of the foreigners who have visited our shores and 
published their observations appear to have seen only our 
worst side ; while not a few of our own tourists see little 
else in Europe but fine manners, beautiful palaces, cathe- 
drals, paintings' and gardens. We have endeavored to 
be impartial, and have not gone out of our way to discover 
the dreadful squalor that has been so painful to witness 
in Rome and Naples, and which never had a parallel in 
any portion of our land. Italy will ever be an inexhaust- 
ible storehouse for the antiquary, the scholar and artist, 
which no possible attainment of our nation can supplant. 
Yet there is no land known to man where the blessings of 
Providence are so universally distributed as in that we 
occupy. The statistics of emigration show that nowhere 
is this better understood than in Europe itself. Our 
people have not recognized at their just estimate the 
advantages and resources they enjoy. While the great 
West is likely to soon attain a population equalling that 
of the whole country to-day, we have in the Gulf States a 
region that with capital and enterprise could be made to 
blossom with nearly all the profusion we see on the shores 
of Naples. Let us not forget the American Italy and its 
possibilities ! 


THE BARBERINI PALACE. 



TIE custom of opening the private galleries of Europe 


X to the public, is certainly most praiseworthy in 
their princely owners. Were they not thus made accessi- 
ble how incalculable would he the deprivation to lovers 
of art! By this liberality one is admitted to private resi-’ 
dences to inspect treasures which mere money cannot 
duplicate. Some years ago the Aspinwall and Belmont 
collections were similarly exhibited in New York on cer- 
tain days ; but the practice has never gained permanence 
with American owners of galleries. The public art mu- 
seums, however, are doing much in our Atlantic capitals 
in educating the people to a proper appreciation of such 
privileges. 

The palaces in Rome are so numerous that mention can 
only be made here of the Barberini, especially interesting 
to us as not only being the largest private palace of the 
city, but for having been so long the residence of the 
famed American sculptor, William Wetmore Story, who, 
in his versatile accomplishments, more nearly represented 
the Italian virtuosi of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries 
than any living man. 

If there be a block of houses in Rome that could be 
removed with architectural profit it is that which inter- 
venes between the superb fountain on the Piazza Barbe- 
rini and the fa£ade of the Palace. The view is also ob- 
structed from the street by a railing, grand in itself, but 
the main elevation demands an open space for joroper dis- 
play. The imposing pile is a vivid illustration of what 


169 


170 


THE B All BEE IN I PALACE. 


heights ecclesiastical power can attain when directed by 
the unscrupulous hands of ambitious men, of which En- 
gland had an example in Wolsey. 

The Barberini family was originally Tuscan, dwelling 
in Florence as early as the eleventh century. A descend- 
ant, Maffeo Barberini, was elevated to the papal chair, 
and his brother Antonio made cardinal. The name now 
became identified with extraordinary riches and power, 
and the palace had no superior for magnificence in Europe. 
It may be said that all Rome was taxed to support the 
grandeur of these dignitaries — ministers of the humble 
Nazarene. A popular wit declared that what the bar- 
barians spared the Barberini sacked. But to their unri- 
valled taste in art and letters the palatial home bears 
evidence to-day, although shorn of much of its ancient 
splendor. When Milton journeyed into Italy, in the mid- 
dle of the seventeenth century, he was entertained by Cardi- 
nal Barberini. It was a period of peculiar interest in the 
poet’s life, the voyage having been undertaken just after 
the death of his mother. While enjoying the hospitalities 
of the cardinal, Lenora Baroni, the Patti of the time, was 
invited to sing for his diversion, and so delighted was the 
poet that he addressed Latin verses to the songstress. 
The title of u First soprano of the world,” which Lenora’s 
mother had won, was no less universally accorded to the 
daughter. 

But it is Guido’s renowned portrait of Beatrice Cenci 
that has given the Barberini Palace its modern celebrity, 
and of which it is estimated that more than half a million 
copies, in various forms, have been distributed throughout 
the world. The story of the Cenci is so unpleasant that 
it nulifies, in a great measure, the interest the beautiful 
painting would otherwise command. The certainty if it 
be a genuine portrait of the unfortunate girl is a subject 
of frequent controversy. At this moment of writing, T. 
Adolphus Trollope has taken an opposite ground to the 



Portrait of Beatrice Cenci in the Barberini Palace 








PAPAL ARROGANCE. 


171 


popular tradition. He pretty clearly shows that Guido 
introduced the same head in his “Aurora.” There can 
be no question that, in the grandeur of its poetry, Shelley’s 
tragedy of “ Beatrice Cenci ” is the noblest dramatic work 
in the English language since Shakespeare wrote ; yet so 
repulsive is the history of her father that the tragedy has 
never attained any degree of popularity in the closet. 
The familiarity of the art public with the portrait spares 
me a recital of its characteristics. The only copies of the 
masters I bought in Europe were the Correggio Madonna 
and Guido’s “ Aurora ” ; in the latter I have not been able 
to define the head of Beatrice so clearly as Mr. Trollope 
appears to have done. Although the contour is similar, it 
is possible the likeness is easier traced in the original. 
The artist certainly may be pardoned if he has repeated 
so beautiful a creation, supposing that the features of 
Beatrice are more or less ideal. 

I am not versed in heraldry. Did the Barberini take 
bees for their crest from the initial of their family name ? 
You find them emblazoned on portions of the palace 
as conspicuously as the “ N’s ” that formerly glittered 
throughout the Tuileries. It would be dangerous policy 
now for the dignitaries of any Church to arrogate to them- 
selves such supremacy as the Barberini Pope, Urban VIII., 
and his brother did ; in an upper room the bees are made 
to fly in the face of the sun, and the Mother of Christ is 
depicted on one of the tapestries as aiding in the corona- 
tion of Pope Urban. Those were different days from 
these o?% 81 , w r hen the dead body of one pope has been 
stoned in the streets of Rome, and the living head of the 
Church asking if it wore not best that he should leave the 
Vatican. 

The garden attached to the Barberini Palace is small 
and in antique style. It is mainly noticeable for an old 
tree in one corner known as the Barberini Pine, one of 
the species so popular with artists — bare, tall trunks with 


172 THE BARBERINI PALACE. 

umbrella-like tops. A vertical sun casts the shadow of 
the foliage of this tree very effectively upon a statue 
beneath ; and the pine, the statue and the shadow have 
been carried off so often in the sketch-books of the artists 
the wonder is there is any substance left. 

On the Piazza Barberini we encounter the little French 
lady, the “Tongue Major” of our Rhine trip, of whom 
we had lost sight since leaving Wiesbaden. All greet her 
with a smile, in return for her own which are never absent 
from her pleasant face — the best passport the world over. 
Satiated with sight-seeing, and travel-worn by our mid- 
summer rambles in Southern Italy, this bright, chirpy 
lady hops about our party very much like a wren amongst 
a solemn conclave of crows. Why should she not be 
happy ? Her home on the Seine is so near ! 


TWO CAPITOLS. 


I F there be some details of the Capitol of the United 
States which are inharmonious, the general effect of 
the east fa9ade is more imposing than any legislative build- 
ing in Europe. Singularly enough, this is the portion least 
seen by tourists, who invariably approach the Capitol in 
the rear, from Pennsylvania avenue. Until my last visit 
at Washington, on the occasion of the inauguration of 
General Garfield, it had long been a mystery to me why 
the modern Washingtonians built in a direction opposite 
to that designed by the founders. The wealth and fashion 
deserted the beautiful and elevated plateau east of the 
Capitol to settle around the White House, a locality which 
at certain seasons neither men nor women can occupy 
without braving as much risk as one would in camping 
out upon the Roman Campagna in the malarial months. 

Yet it is not improbable that there are several Ameri- 
can ladies who would not object to a residence at the 
White House under a four years’ lease, should the country 
see fit to make their husbands tenants. That all such may 
be spared the trials that have fallen to Mrs. Garfield, is 
the prayer of every loyal heart. 

If the reader will pardon a digression, I would take the 
opportunity to apply a gentle castigation to our national 
legislators, suggested by my first visit to an occupied 
European palace, that of the Queen of Holland, at the 
Hague. More forcible illustrations, however, are found in 
Germany, Avhere petty princes, w T hose territory is less than 
some counties of American States, are lodged in habits 

173 


174 


TWO CAPITOLS . 


tions whose ornaments alone exceed in value the entire 
White House estate and the adjoining swamps. 

It is not necessary that we instate our rulers in regal 
palaces ; but they should at least have a home in some 
degree commensurate with the dignity of the Republic, 
and one in which our presidents may not be exposed to 
perils great as those resulting from the greed of office- 
seekers. 

The reason assigned for the eligible land extending east- 
ward from the Capitol being left unimproved, is, that it 
was held by the proprietors at such enormons prices as to 
frighten off the class who would have made it the most 
elegant quarter of the city. 

Save for the inspiring associations of the spot, there is 
nothing about the exterior of the Roman Capitol which 
can bear architectural comparison with that at Washing- 
ton. But for its art treasures what could we not afford 
to give? Not the least of these are “ Pliny’s Doves,” a 
mosaic four feet square, representing four doves drinking 
from a vase, poised exquisitely on the rim ; the workman- 
ship is so fine that one hundred and fifty stones can be 
counted in the space of a square inch. 

To think how we used to cherish our little mosaic breast- 
pins and bracelets ! In Italy you walk over pavements of 
mosaic; entire walls and buildings are of the same costly 
work, and often passed by the hurrying crowds and glanced 
at as paintings. 

How much of this untold wealth represents the tears 
and toil of the people ! One cannot help thinking of a 
day when there will come a reckoning. 

We stand long before the busts of the emperors, each a 
biography in marble. It is interesting to see boys and 
young students standing with eyes fastened upon the heads 
of Caesar, Marcus Aurelius and the young Commodus. 

And here is Nero’s mother, in a pose that could never 
be made in an American rocking-chair. The easy, con- 


STATUARY. 


175 


cave back of the Roman chair alone would permit such 
graceful disposition of the human form and its drapery. 
Poor Agrippina! the sculptor seems to have given her 
consciousness that her death was to come from the fiat of 
him to whom she had given life. Canova’s sitting statue 
of Napoleon’s mother is so near a copy of this that he 
could not have called it an original design. 

It gives one a mental dyspepsia to visit the statuary of 
the Vatican and of the Capitol with but a few hours to 
intervene. Each has its marble in which the human form 
is carved to absolute perfection. Save the “ Dying Gladia- 
tor ” I found no statue in the Capitol, rich as it is in marble, 
to interest me so much as did the “Apollo ” and “ Ariadne” 
of the Vatican. In viewing the former, women have op- 
portunity to write panegyrics to equal those that men for 
ages have been pronouncing upon the “Venus of Milo.” 
The plaster copies of the “ Apollo ” but faintly reproduce 
the more than beauty of the figure. What is there in this 
wide world to compare with the curl of that lip, the poise 
of that matchless head! There are not wanting those 
who would rank the “ Antinous ” above the “Apollo ; ” but 
I think no well-balanced mind can have the least sympathy 
with such. No comparison can be made between the two 
works ; they are of distinct types ; the “ Apollo ” is the 
embodied physical perfection of man joined to the intellect 
of a god. The other is the abstract of absolute beauty in 
youth, which never has been, never can be surpassed. Be- 
fore it criticism is dumb. 

The most elevating sentiment of the Greeks and of the 
Romans was that which led them to see in physical perfec- 
tions the typical representation of the exalted deities. 
From this standpoint the worship of the Apollo type was 
comparatively without reproach ; but when this degener- 
ated into leading the Romans to worship Antinous, whether 
in marble or a constellation, we discover the germs of the 
most dangerous tendencies. There is no antique the 


176 


TWO CAPITOLS. 


world can spare with so little loss, and we gladly turn 
to the “ Faun ” of Praxitiles, scarcely less beautiful and far 
more healthy.* 

The statuary of the Capitol is so universally known that 
I omit a detailed description. One room, less noticed 
than that containing the busts of the Emperors, is that 
called the “ Hall of Illustrious Men ; ” busts of Seneca, 
Homer, Theon, father of Hypatia, Demosthenes, Theo- 
phratus, and more than fifty other ancient immortals 
among whom are included Aspasia and Cleopatra. How 
the shades of the latter must secretly rejoice in this 
posthumous honor ! A noticeable bas-relief on the walls 
of this room is a representation of a Roman room, in which 
a lady is teaching a cat to dance to the music of a lyre ; 
the design is very airy and elegant, but appears incon- 
gruous in the presence of Seneca and other grave dignities : 
nor can we imagine that Aspasia had any predilection for 
cats. It may have been intended as an indirect compli- 
ment to Cleopatra whose nation deified and embalmed 
them. 

Were I asked to single out what Americans in England 
and Italy seek first, study the most, and recollect the 
longest, I should designate the home and haunts of Shakes- 
peare in Stratford-on-Avon, and the Capitol at Rome. In 
some of the halls of the latter we could point out repre- 
sentatives of nearly every State of the Union. But for 
the consciousness that the Tarpeian Rock was within view, 
on the south side of the Capitoline Hill, we might fancy 
we were to emerge into Pennsylvania avenue. 

The view of the grand staircase leading to the Capitol 
is very imposing. Some persons are attacked with vertigo 
as they start to descend, owing to the height and great 
number of steps. They have stood in their present shape 
since 1536, in which year Charles V., grandson of Ferdi- 

*The “ Antinous” and “Faun ” of the Capitol are copies of those in the 
Vatican. 


BEGGARS , TRAMWAYS AND NEWSBOYS. 177 

nand and Isabella of Spain, ascended them. Two majes- 
tic lions of Egyptian porphyry guard the approach, while 
the plateau at the summit has two sentinels in the gigan- 
tic statues of Castor and Pollux. These stairs have an 
historical tragic interest parallel to those of the Ducal 
Palace at V enice, down which some authorities say rolled 
the head of Marino Falerio. Better substantiated is the 
story of Rienzi, the last of the tribunes, who fell at the 
base of the Capitol stairs, dying from a hundred wounds, 
his wife a spectator of the assassination from a neighbor- 
ing window overlooking the spot. 

Beggars! beggars! Tell me what public places in 
Rome one may visit freed from the disgusting importuni- 
ties of these wretches, and I will make valuable use of the 
knowledge upon a second visit. No amount of protesta- 
tion, or concentration in your features of all the Belsar- 
tean laws of facial expression of impatience, serves to 
discourage them ; if you push them away with your left 
hand they slip around to be served the same with your 
right. One of the mythical kings of Rome was Saturn, 
whose wife was Ops, the representative of Plenty. What 
a pity she did not leave an endowment for these half- 
starved beings, that tourists might enjoy the antiquities 
in peace and comfort. 

Almost within sight of the steps of the Capitol are the 
tramways that transport you from one end of Rome to the 
other ; and above the rattle of the horse-car wheels you 
hear the shrill cry of the newsboy. Although we are 
standing in the shadow of the equestrian statue of Marcus 
Aurelius (how grand it is !), for the moment the Rome of 
Constantine was as far from us as the stars. 


CATACOMBS OF ST. CALIXTTTS. 

OMING to Rome from Naples is like leaving a sunny 



garden and entering a stately hall of antique statues. 
You see women in the streets whose step has the majesty 
of the mother of Cariolanus ; but they are artists’ models. 
So vividly is the spirit of the past hanging over this Niobe 
of nations that it seems little less than anachronism to see 
men and women of the nineteenth century on the Appian 
Way sacred to the toga. 

But over this highway, which yet retains portions of 
the original bed, we did not walk. If the ghost of Caesar s 
wife had chanced to be taking an airing on the day of our 
visit to the Catacombs, what would have been her com- 
ments upon the American women who formed a portion 
of the party riding over the Appian Way, along the very 
pavement pressed by the wheels of her family chariot ? 
It is quite certain we had not travelled for two months 
from the Clyde to the Tiber, in the heat and dust of July 
and August, without showing some travel stains. We 
care little, however, for such trivial matters as fatigue and 
dress when speeding over this famed highway, built cen- 
turies before the birth of Christ. A grove of cypress-trees 
was visible as we neared an open field, the gloomy shade 
of which was in fit harmony with the subterranean realms 
we were prepared to explore. 

Our number was divided into several parties, each led 
by a guide, and each individual provided with a candle. 
The injunction to keep within sight of the leader was un- 
necessary, judging from my own instincts. The ceremony 


178 


FATHER BOSIO. 


of counting every head is not calculated to calm nerves 
already in an abnormal state of excitement, as we prepare 
to descend. 

Our ideas of the Catacombs had been somewhat vague. 
We knew they had been the burial-places of both pagans 
and Christians ; that a large portion of the country around 
the Seven Hills, and beneath even portions of these, had 
been perforated and quarried until these crypts, fashioned 
in the soft volcanic soil, had been the receptacles of five 
or six million bodies ; that in times of persecution the 
early Christians had fled here for refuge ; that Father 
Bosio was the Columbus who discovered this subterranean 
world, or rather made known in the sixteenth century its 
characteristics and extent by the researches of the thirty 
years of study he spent here shut out from the light of 
day. This theoretical knowledge, however, was now to 
be supplemented with an actual exploration of miles of 
these mysterious recesses. 

The general appearance is of narrow passages, from ten 
to twelve feet in height, sometimes but eight. On each 
side are cavities six feet long, one above another, very 
similar to berths in the sleeping-saloon of a steamer. 
These passages often lead into galleries of greater dimen- 
sions. The actual distance we traversed it is impossible 
to determine. The mind was so preoccupied in keeping 
the guide’s candle in view that not much opportunity was 
had for anything more than a cursory glimpse at the 
objects around. Our guide was an Italian who spoke no 
English, and not one of us could address him in his own 
tongue. Our candles grew alarmingly less, consuming 
more rapidly by the draughts made by our fast walk as 
we progressed farther and farther from the entrance, 
which by this time we had lost all conception in what 
direction it lay. A quick consultation was held, and it 
was decided best to extinguish a j3ortion of the candles in 
order to ensure a sufficiency of light for our return to the 


180 


CATACOMBS OF ST. CALIXTUS. 


upper world.* I suppose our anxiety was without much 
just cause; but those were moments when imagination is 
apt to stray from reason. Half-forgotten stories flashed 
through my brain with startling vividness, of the young 
men who came here with their tutor and were never more 
heard of by their friends ; of the artist who penetrated 
here alone, depending upon a ball of twine he unrolled as 
he progressed, but lost his clue, and spent miserable hours 
before it was found; of passages blocked by falling roofs 
in portions of their five hundred miles of length. 

Will it not be credited that when the voice of our con- 
ductor, Mr. Crunden, was heard it was a welcome sound ? 
He instructed our guide to return with us to the entrance. 
When at last we stood upon the dear old earth again, it 
seemed as if we had never known before what wondrously 
beautiful creations are the sun and sky. I think it was 
Sheridan who said to his son, who proposed to go down 
the crater of Vesuvius, “Say you went ‘down.” At an 
equal expense of veracity, we might have said we went 
down into the Catacombs without braving the unpleasant 
features of such a visit ; yet, hurried and limited as was 
our exploration, it has proved of incalculable value to us 
since in relation to the Christian history of Rome. The 
reverence for the holy ones buried here is no outgrowth of 
modern piety ; it has continued from the fourth century, 
and no modern writer has more tersely described the gen- 
eral appearance of these underground avenues than St. 
Jerome, who wrote of them fifteen centuries ago : “ When 
I was a boy, receiving my education in Rome, I and my 
schoolfellows used, on Sundays, to make the circuit of the 
sepulchres of the apostles and martyrs. Many a time did 
we go down, into the Catacombs. They are excavated 
deep in the earth, and contain on either hand, as you 


* I have since read of experiences of others very similar. Can it be that 
these are what at home are called “ advertising dodges ” — to cause unneces- 
sary alarm, and give a morbid glamour to the spot ? 


GHASTLY SIGHTS. 


181 


enter, the bodies of the dead buried in the wall 

Occasionally is light let in to mitigate the horror of the 
gloom, and then not so much through a. window as 
through a hole.” 

The ghastly bodies we saw in the Catacombs were of 
popes and dignitaries buried there since the time of Jerome. 
A more uncanny spectacle it would be difficult to conceive. 
It argues little for modern civilization that the exhibition 
of decaying mortality should be so general in Europe. 
Such repulsive displays go far to reconcile one to a serious 
consideration if cremation is not, after all, the most proper 
disposition of the dead. Think of standing in a large, 
vaulted chamber entirely ornamented with human bones 
and skulls, arranged with nearly as much care as would 
be given to mosaic work ! A London artist has taken 
admirable pictures of the Catacombs by aid of the magne- 
sium light ; and researches are constantly adding to our 
knowledge of this city of the dead. 

Although these excavations cannot be traced earlier 
than the second century, there is no doubt but the pagans 
had prior burial there ; the slabs used in sealing up the 
niches which held the bodies have been found, in some 
instances, to have done double service, having a pagan in- 
scription on the back side, made long before the Christian 
epitaph was painted, in vermilion letters. This is more 
pardonable than the economy of a bereaved New En- 
glander who used the tombstone of his long-buried wife to 
furnish his kitchen with a new hearth. 


THE COLOSSEUM. 


HALL we who have looked upon the Colosseum mourn 



O because we beheld not the Pyramids ? It is not 
man’s work. Surely, some army of Titans’ of consummate 
skill labored upon a mountain of stone, hewed out its 
Doric and Corinthian columns, its graceful arches, its ornate 
friezes ; and then, by magic aid of the genii, transported 
the vast fabric here, to stand the wonder of the world for 
all time. 

Let us go over on the northeast side, which is in the 
best state of preservation, ascend the massive stairs until 
we reach the lofty portico which crowns the top story like 
a coronet of chiselled beauty. Imagine restored the 
despoiled decorations of the Caesars ; go back to the cent- 
ury which saw the birth and death of our crucified Lord 
and witness one of the gladiatorial shows which modern 
French artists have so powerfully reproduced on canvas. 
Here are some of the very rings in which were pulled the 
cords to raise the purjde awnings to shield the hundred 
thousand spectators from the ardent sun. It is no mob, 
as we see in the stage representations of “ Julius Caesar ; ” 
the chivalry, the wealth of intellect, the pride of Rome, 
mistress of the world, radiant in physical beauty, freshly 
perfumed, and glowing with the exercise at the bath, they 
enter the massive portals in streams of living mosaic. 
The senators are seated upon the lower gallery ; above 
them are the families who have given the most sons to the 
imperial armies ; still higher sit the populace ; and here, 
right where we also have chosen our point of observa- 


182 


THE GLADIATORS. 


183 


tion, sat the Cornelias and Portias of Rome, draped in 
tinted gauze, their necks and arms blazing with the jewels 
for which the known world had been searched to discover. 
A burst of triumphant music announces the entrance of 
the Emperor and his suite; the ponderous arches vibrate 
in response to the acclamations of the hundred thousand 
j as they greet the head of the Roman empire. Priests and 
white-robed vestals invoke the presence of the protecting 
gods ; the Emperor gives the signal, and the gladiators 
enter into the arena. For a moment they stand looking 
up to the crowded balconies, then down to the earth 
sprinkled with gold powder, so soon to be crimsoned with 
their life’s blood. It may be they do not appear until the 
gorgeous chariots have made their flying rounds ; but the 
gladiators are the favorites, and all eyes follow each change 
of artistic pose of the combatants. No matter if they are 
brothers or friends, they must fight on until the weaker 
lies prostrate beneath the foot of the victor, who glances 
upward for the fiat which decrees life or death. If the 
vanquished has fought bravely, or has in any way secured 
the good will of the fickle and heartless spectators, the 
thumbs may be turned down,* which is the signal that he 
may live. Yet that assemblage will never disperse until 
its ears have been regaled with the groans of dying swords- 
men, and its eyes feasted with gaping wounds and rivulets 
of blood. How few of us look upon that powerful sculpt- 
ure in the capitol, the “ Dying Gladiator,” and realize 
that on the arena before us a thousand men have died as 
he dies. 

But there are even darker scenes that have been enacted 
within these walls. The same power that made torches 

* There appears to be much controversy whether it was this or the turning 
up of the thumbs which signalled the victor to spare the life of his opponent. 
Juvenal’s authority should be enough : 

“ Influenced by the rabble’s bloody will, 

With thumbs bent back they popularly kill.” 


184 


THE COLOSSEUM. 


of Christians, wrapped in flaming pitch, doomed others of 
their hapless brethren to perish here by hungry tigers and 
lions, whose dens you may yet see in the foundations 
beneath the seats of the senators. Oh, where was the 
Good Shepherd, that the faithful flock must be torn by 
the fangs of human Roman wolves? But their blood is 
the seed of the Church. On the very sjjot where they fell 
Christian sermons have been preached, and the suffering 
of Him crucified rehearsed where the martyrs yielded up 
the lives dedicated to His name. Think of the holy saints, 
the noble youth, the pious maids, who have perished here 
in defence of their faith ! There is a letter extant, written 
by Ignatius, who was torn to pieces, in which he calls all 
the torments of flesh to fall upon him rather than that he 
should deny his Lord : “ Only let me enjoy Jesus Christ. 
I would rather die for him than rule to the uttermost 
ends of the earth.” Sustained by such inspired impulse as 
that of Ignatius, the lions could only harm the bodies of 
the martyrs, while their souls ascended to eternal glory. 
The mind is not to be envied that can meditate unmoved 
in the Colosseum or the Catacombs upon the sufferings of 
the early professors of our faith. 

I have somewhere seen rare engravings of the interior 
and exterior of the Colosseum as it appeared in the six- 
teenth century, when it was a more picturesque object 
than now' — nearly every arch opening was festooned with 
falling vines, and all the outlines softened by parasitic 
verdure. A noted botanist has enumerated four hundred 
varieties of flora growing on the walls; some were not 
indigenous, and the seeds were supposed to have been 
deposited by birds. These parasitic growths are now 
kept carefully removed, for a better preservation of the 
ruins, but which in consequence have lost consider- 
able poetic and natural beauty. The study of the struc- 
ture is of paramount interest to architects. I can name 
no other equally satisfactory blending of different orders, 


ARCHITECTURAL STUDIES. 185 

hai m onions as a chord in music. Here we view in the ex- 
terior wall the severe Doric at the base, supporting the 
graceful Ionic; above this rises the chaste Corinthian, 
crowned with what we term Composite. How could a 
people capable of such art be so prone to luxurious vice ? 
Truly does the world move and grow better. Contrast 
our late ruler — the noble patriot, the doating husband 
and father — with the majority of the twelve Csesars. Is 
there not a vital lesson in the pure life of this man to be 
kept evermore held up to the youth of America? Had 
his frame been debilitated by excesses, no earthly skill 
could have so long averted the direful result of the 
assassin’s blow. 

The American who exclaimed, on first seeing the Colos- 
seum, “ Gracious ! what a place for a mass meeting!” 
was not of our party. Some of our elocutionists, however, 
thought it a rare place for practice ; and, had they tested 
their theories, would, no doubt, have outranted the French 
invaders who played the “Brutus” of Voltaire in the 
arena, dragging hither the statue of Pompey, that C«sar 
might spill his blood upon it as he fell. Could realism go 
further? The visitors were too many and too cosmopoli- 
tan for our orators to ventilate their proficiency. The 
gentleman who suggested Rienzi’s speech to the Romans, 
probably had in mind the opening line as written bv Miss 
Mitford : — 


<l Friends, I come not here to talk.” 

I had not so completely outgrown the zeal implanted by 

my tutor, Professor A , of Philadelphia, but a smaller 

company might have persuaded me to illustrate what a 
poor figure an amateur reader could make in that vast 
auditorium. The result might have been as destructive 
to vanity as in the case of the English tourist who was 
attempting some Italian recitation in his carriage, while 
riding along the Tiber ; a Roman gentleman, passing by 


186 


THE COLOSSEUM. 


on horseback, was so enraged at the barbarous accent that 
he laid his whip over the Englishman’s shoulders, throw- 
ing his card into the carriage at the same moment. 

The spectacle of the Colosseum illuminated at night 
did not fall within our province to behold. Indeed, few 
of our ladies would have enjoyed it, however grand and 
unique, unless accompanied by a strong escort. Even by 
day we catch glimpses of faces repellent in the extreme, 
although their owners may be as harmless as the Italian 
who so much startled Mrs. and her daughter at Ven- 

ice. Should the brigands carry any of us off to the 
mountains, they would probably be more actuated by 
hope of ransom money than from admiration of American 
beauty. 


ST. PETER’S AND THE VATICAN. 


W ILL it be anything less than downright heresy for 
one who has no authority in Art or Letters to 
write of St. Peter’s other than in the stereotyped phrases 
of unqualified admiration ? I have no sympathy with the 
nil admirari who create a standard of perfection impossi- 
ble for man to attain ; who praise the freshly-plucked rose 
because it is perfect ; who pronounce the fly upon the 
fruit in a cabinet gem a ]3ainted abomination, and awrny 
goes the fly, which was real. 

Nevertheless, I cannot repeat all the conventional un- 
qualified praise of St. Peter’s world-renowned splendors. 
First, as to its exterior, it is in no degree ecclesiastical. 
Remove the great dome (what is the significance of the 
smaller?) and you have only the fa$ade of a Roman palace, 
magnificent indeed, but still a palace, an enlarged Barbe- 
rini. The colonnades of Bernini, so beautiful in their 
sickle-like sw r eeps, are meaningless here. Place them at 
the Fifth-avenue entrance of Central park, or, what is bet- 
ter, owing to a wider approach, erect them at the Boston 
Public Garden entrance to Commonwealth avenue; so 
placed they would be architectural accessories of extreme 
elegance and propriety ; but as adjuncts of a cathedral 
they are as idle as the puerile wall that fronted the man- 
sion of Lord Timothy Dexter at Newburyport, on which 
were ranged statues of notabilities, re-christened to suit 
the whimseys of the owner : — Red Jacket or General 
Washington to-day serving for the Lafayette or Bonaparte 
of the morrow. Not only are Bernini’s colonnades incon- 

187 


188 


ST. PETER’S AND THE VATICAN. 


gruous, but they obstruct the view of the church, an arch- 
itectural error almost as great as that which has made a 
block of houses to intervene between the Piazza Barberini 
and the palace. 

In the centre of the oval partially enclosed by the colon- 
nade, we find a truly ecclesiastical feature ; for the Egyp- 
tian obelisk, from the pedestal upward, is a counterpart of 
that yet standing at Heliopolis, which adorned the temple 
in which Joseph’s father-in-law probably officiated as 
priest, and where Moses studied the learning of the 
Egyptians. The utmost engineering skill of England and 
America has recently been tested in bringing from Egypt 
the Cleopatra needles of London and New York ; as we 
view this in front of St. Peter’s, we are led to inquire how 
the Romans transported hither nearly two thousand years 
ago the numerous Egyptian obelisks which adorn the city. 

As we approach the steps to the entrance of the church 
the three domes have long since disappeared from sight ; 
you understand the cause better when you visit the roof, 
where it is found that the domes are four hundred feet 
from the fayade. The error is not Michael Angelo’s; had 
his plan been followed, the dome would have had all the 
exterior prominence of St. Paul’s of London. 

We shall not have to lift the oft-mentioned leather cur- 
tain ; it is already withdrawn. 

“ Impressive ! Sublime ! ” you exclaim, when you find 
utterance for emotions born of having passed from a world 
of blue and white without to a world of crimson, gold 
and purple within. Beneath the roof over your head the 
entire population of Norwich, Conn., could find shelter. 

Beautiful beyond all else the world can show ; match- 
less in its proportions ; peerless in its adornments ; a 
palace without, a museum and art gallery within. Yet 
not all the gorgeous pomp of its ceremonials, the angelic 
strains of the choirs, the culminations of the arts and the 
concentration of all papal glory, take me so near the 


THE ROOF. 


189 


heavenly gates as when I look along the ever-ascendinw 
columns supporting the vaulted roof of the cathedral at 
Cologne. 

No ; there is too much that celebrates the pride of man 
in St. Peter’s to permit a calm worship of God. A thou- 
sand distracting objects divert the mind into channels 
which are not devotional. At St. Peter’s you get no 
higher than the roof. Strong-minded men stand here 
blinded and intoxicated with beauty, dumb, in presence of 
the genius of their fellows ; at Cologne they weep. 

I do not know that I had any more religious feelino- 
excited in St. Peter’s than in the adjoining Vatican. It 
may have been rebellious blood, more Puritan than Chris- 
tian, that stirred me as I looked on the magnificence made 
to emblazon the fame and glory of the chief vicar of the 
meek and lowly Nazarene. Look how Urban VIII. has 
made a compact with Death to give in his tomb an immor- 
tality to the pride which made the Barberini bees to fly 
m the face of the sun, to typify that the glory of his family 
obscured the light of day. 

Americans, on visiting London for the first time, are im- 
pressed with the immensity of St. Paul’s ; yet if mere size 
can move men, then must St. Peter’s have the precedence. 
An English writer estimates that St. Paul’s could be 
placed within St. Peter’s, leaving a forty-eight-feet pas- 
sage at either end, and sixty-four feet ‘between the two 
domes. The depth of St. Peter’s is six hundred and thir- 
teen feet. The ascent to the roof is up a winding stair- 
case of magnificent balustrades and columns; so gradual 
is the incline that a lady could ascend on the back of her 
favorite horse. To describe the view is to draw a map of 
Rome. My chief regret on the roof was thatT could not 
reverse the crowning balustrade of the fa 5 ade, and thus 
view it from its own level; as this is among the impossi- 
bilities, we turn our backs to it and study the great dome. 
What a temple of itself ! Laborers were at work repair- 


190 


ST. PETER'S AND THE VATICAN. 


W the roof in that listless manner which marks the Gov- 

o 

eminent employe the world over. Were I employed in 
any capacity about St. Peter’s, it is probable my services 
would not be commensurate with the pay, however small 
the latter might be. Workmen are almost continuously 
employed upon the church, the annual repairs costing 
thirty thousand dollars. Indirectly, the Protestants are 
under obligations to this edifice ; it was the abusive sale 
of indulgences made for its completion that aroused the 
protest of Luther, and eventually led to the Reformation. 

The limits of a volume alone would suffice to contain 
all that is seen from the roof of St. Peter’s, and we 
descend with heads aching with increased burdens of 
memories. Again we are surrounded with the thousand 
forms of man-worship to which even Catholic writers 
have taken exception. While witnessing the pompous 
ceremonials one cannot be rid of the impression that they 
are but the rites of an advanced Paganism ; the image of 
St. Peter itself once stood for Jupiter Capitolinus. Of the 
homage paid by Protestant Americans to Pius IX. and 
Leo XIII. much has been written in censure ; those more 
conservative would only condemn such attentions when 
they exceed the deference they would pay to the repre- 
sentatives of the learning and wisdom of their own faith. 
Leo XIII., like his predecessor, lives very quiet and 
secluded. The festive banquets and the conversazioni of 
Leo X. are no more forever. How careful was Pius IX. 
to avoid nepotism ! Is there not in this something worthy 
of note to those called to rule the American States ? 

Think not that we are insensible to the marvellous 
beauty of the handiwork of the architect, the painter and 
sculptor concentrated above, around and below. Nothing 
impresses the mind more forcibly than the extraordinary 
calculation of distance, which makes the edifice one of 
perfect proportions. The figures of the Evangelists in 
the cupola, seen from the pavement, appear the size of 


PERSPECTIVE . 


191 


life ; the pen in the hand of St. Luke is seven feet long. 
But there is no law that can prevent the almost grotesque 
dwarfing of live humanity in such immensity of space. 
In the perspective the rotundity of John Bull and the alti- 
tude of our fellow-tourists from the West dwindle into 
the proportions of wooden toy figures. 

Murray will probably tell you the dimensions of the 
huge columns which uphold the grand dome ; there is a 
church in Rome purposely built to be of the exact size of 
each of these columns. 

The relative situation of the Vatican to St. Peter’s is 
as the American parsonage to the church. This vast pile 
we enter from a passage leading from the right colonnade 
in front of St. Peter s ; it contains the winter residence of 
the pope, library, museum and art galleries. Our poor 
tired feet refused to scale more than a dozen of its two 
hundred staircases, or to enter more than fifty of its 
reputed two thousand rooms. Truly, sight-seeing in Rome 
is a serious business — in August. We ought to have 
scruples in saying we have seen it ; had every moment of 
our stay been spent in St. Peter’s and the Vatican, there 
would yet have been worlds to conquer within their walls. 
If their treasures are ever exposed for sale, as were those 
of the late San Donato collection, how eagerly our million- 
aires will bid for their possession! It will be long, 
however, before we can get hold of the Vatican gems. 

Am I the signboard which points out the way to others 
it does not follow itself? Are we, too, not guilty of man- 
worship as we study the frescoes of Michael Angelo on 
the walls and ceilings of the Sistine Chapel, not so ob- 
scured by age and incense as not to reveal the genius of 
the master ? How few of the thousands that come before 
the “Last Judgment” are prepared to realize the intent 
of the artist ! What an age was that which owned the 
contemporary triumvirate, Da Vinci, Angelo and Raphael. 
In the Sistine Chapel the personality as well as the genius 


192 ST. PETER'S AND THE VATICAN. 

of Michael Angelo is embodied before you. You find it 
impossible to think of him other than "as a Titan, that he 
was never a child. Yet this man of gigantic conceptions, 
who lifted yonder dome into the clouds, was filled with 
the loveliness of poetry; was moved by the rolling of a 
dewdrop from the morning rose. Will we ever again 
have united in one man a Praxiteles, a Zeuxis, a Homer 
and Brunelleschi ? 

The torrid heat, the illness of my son, with whom the 
Italian climate did not agree, to say nothing of my own 
fatigue, prevented as much enjoyment of Raphael’s 
“ Loggie ” as had been anticipated. Some of his works 
in the “ Stanzie ” are not favorably placed for examination 
at any thing less than the expense of a dislocated neck. 
Why is not a mirror arranged to reflect these, as at the 
casino of the Rospigliosi Palace for the “Aurora ” ? How 
lavish were these art patrons, to embellish by the works 
of such artists the portions of buildings most remote from 
a natural range of vision ! Guido said he had two hun- 
dred ways of making people look up to heaven ; in his 

Aurora ” he probably sought to prove the truth of his 
declaration. 

The “ Madonna del Folgino ” made amends for what- 
ever disappointment we may have had in the “ Loggie ; ” 
there is no purer, sweeter face in the Vatican than this by 
the girlish boy of Urbino. His “ School of Athens ” is 
one of those works of which I cannot trust myself to 
write, for the world has no other canvas where Art and 
History are so gloriously wedded. The light in the room 
containing “ St. Peter’s Release from Prison ” was so 
admirable that the work held us with great interest. 
“The Transfiguration,” upon which his last labor was 
expended, produces a powerful effect upon the sympa- 
thetic spectator ; it was unfinished when he was called to 
enter those realms the glory of which even his own tran- 
scendent genius could not portray. 


Recumbent statue of the Nile in the Vatican Museum. 







































































































































































































































































































































Recumbent statue of the Nile in the Vatican Museum. 




ARIADNE . 


193 


In the Greek statuary of the Vatican there is but one 
fever-present conviction — the absolute perfection to which 
the ancients attained in reproducing in marble the human 
form. Their opportunities for study in the baths and 
gymnasium were such as are never likely to be repeated. 

We understand the extolment of the antique by a 
certain archaeologist who has much to do with excur- 
tionists in Rome, as we stand before “ Ariadne ” in her 
dreamless sleep. How consummate the repose of the limbs 
and the disposition of the drapery ! Great sculptors have 
stood before it in despair. Take the best photograph of 
it you can procure, and with cashmere shawls attempt to 
imitate upon the form of a lady friend the drapery of 
u Ariadne. ” A beautiful result may follow, yet infinitely 
remote from the perfection of the original. I must not 
say all I think of the “ Ariadne. ” The directors of the 
Boston Art Museum are the cause of my introducing her 
here at all. My youngest son and I arrived in Boston on 
a hot Saturday afternoon of last August, after a dusty 
ride of a hundred miles from Old Orchard Beach, and 
were seized upon by an enthusiastic friend, who hurried 
us through the Beacon street Athenaeum, Bates Hall 
Library, the Public Garden and Art Museum, where we 
forgot all our fatigue before “ Ariadne, ” so eligibly placed 
on the staircase. 

For the sake of the children, I will give a passing 
notice to the unique statue of the “ Nile ” in the Vatican, 
a recumbent figure of a gigantic man, his limbs half cov- 
ered by sixteen children, to represent the respective 
heights of the ancient stream; he looks majestically 
down upon the cunning elfs who are taking all sorts of 
liberties with the old giant. A copy in black marble is in 
the Tuileries. An American sculptor is now engaged 
carving a similar work of the Mississippi to be placed in 
Central Park, the figures said to be portraits of members 
of a noted New York millionaire’s family. 


194 ST. PETER'S AND THE VATICAN. 

The accommodations for those who wish to rest in the 
Vatican are not as luxurious as those of the Pitti Palace. 
Not the least of the enjoyments in the European galleries 
is to secure a comfortable lounging place and review the 
procession of the nations as their representatives pass 
before you. 

The only painting I bought in Rome was a copy of 
Guido’s “Aurora.” Had I found a copy of any of 
Michael Angelo’s groups of equal merit, the preference 
would have been given to that. What destroyers of let- 
ters of credit are those masters in their three-century-old 
tombs ! It is fortunate that the expenses of the entire 
trip were paid before we went on board the Anchoria at 
New York; nothing but a precipitous flight from the 
Pitti Palace saved us from positive bankruptcy at Flor- 
ence, 


ALONG A FAMOUS SEA. 


> 


I N leaving Rome for Pisa we passed through a portion 
of the Campagna — that anomalous region which is 
green in winter and spring, dreary and withered in sum- 
mer. No words can convey an idea of the deserted look 
of these undulating plains; they would seem to be the 
adjuncts of Palmyra or Baalbec, instead of lying within 
the shadow of St. Peter’s dome. How imposing, even in 
ruins, the mighty aqueducts, down whose crumbling 
arches trails the maiden-hair. One of these recalls the 
distant view of High bridge, over which the Croton flows. 
While we are by no means disposed to join in a Carlylis- 
tic extolment of the past at the expense of the present, 
it cannot be denied that the ancients were in many things 
in advance of our own time ; their methods of supplying 
centres of population with pure water were positively 
such as not to admit of improvement. There are water- 
pipes to-day at Pompeii as perfect as when the Diomedes 
and Sallusts availed themselves of their use nearly two 
thousand years ago. The massive and majestic remains 
of the water-courses we are now passing around Rome 
are eloquently suggestive of what we have to learn in this 
important matter of water supply. Few persons who 
have arrived at the age of maturity, but may recollect 
threatened water famines in Boston and New York. 
Many a time before I saw Europe have I stood upon an 
elevation in the rear of my summer cottage watching the 
sun sink into the Lake of Ontario and thought that ulti- 
mately its vast waters might be conveyed to the metropo- 

195 


> 


196 


ALONG A FAMOUS SEA. 


lis, so rapidly outgrowing the Croton. Since my return 
I believe it has been proposed to utilize Lake George for 
supplying the reservoirs of New York, as Loch Lomond 
does those of Glasgow. 

Our route is along the Mediterranean ; but the sultry 
breezes do little to mitigate the discomfort arising from 
the heat and dust. The scenery is devoid of interest 
save here and there where openings reveal backgrounds 
of rock and wood of a Salvator Rosa character. A fire 
had recently raged through a forest upon a slope rising 
above a stony plain ; the tall trunks stood like columns of 
ebony against the blue sky. 

Our reception at Pisa was royal. On our arrival, at 
half past eleven, we found the “Hotel de la Minerva” 
brilliantly illuminated in our honor. Few of us felt like 
assuming the airs of American queens and princes. A 
midnight dinner, and retired soon as it was over. Is 
it not a wonder any of us survived to tell of these 
repeated irregularities? Yes, we slept at Pisa. Who 
but a nervous invalid could not? No city needs so few 
narcotics. 

I thank the Pisans for concentrating all their show- 
places in one spot — a welcome boon to weary pilgrims. 
A cab took us, at a sober pace (no Neapolitan whip- 
cracking, here !), to the Piazza del Duomo, where we 
made a methodical inspection of the Cathedral, Baptistry, 
Campo Santa and Leaning Tower — all too well known 
to need general description. I made a careful survey 
from every available point of the latter, and have no rea- 
son to conclude that it was not originally built as perpen- 
dicular as Bunker Hill monument. The spongy nature of 
the soil probably caused the inclination. After the mon- 
ument now building at Washington in honor of the 
founder, was more than one hundred and fifty feet in 
height, measures were taken to make the soil upon which 
it rests less liable to sink away from the heavy load to be 


LEANING TOWER AND CAMPO SANTA. 


197 


placed upon it. Those who argue, however, that the 
Leaning Tower was built at its present inclination, have a 
tolerable proof in the tower at Milan, which was left un- 
finished in consequence of the architect’s discovery that 
it would have toppled over had it been carried to the in- 
tended height. It would be an odd sight to see the 
campaniles of a whole city at these eccentric angles, like 
the 11 drunken houses ” at Amsterdam. 

I ascended the Pisa tower, but should not, had I previ- 
ously stood beneath it on the outside looking up to the 
inclination. In this position, by letting your eyes rest on 
the sky, just beyond the summit, the whole mass appears 
as if it was actually falling upon your head. Nor is the 
ascent a wholly unalloyed delight. The view is very 
lovely, but ugly thoughts will intrude that your weight 
may assist in giving the structure another forward pitch, 
and that the normal laws of gravitation in such case 
would not be suspended in your behalf. We found a 
chime of seven bells in the belfry, the largest weighing 
six tons ; they must contain much silver, the sound is so 
sweet. The guide was driven nearly to the point of in- 
sanity by some of our party ringing the chime in a dis- 
cordant style. But the sweetest sound at Pisa is the echo 
near the font in the Baptistry. The names of dear friends 
spoken here come back from every unseen corner of the 
edifice in such angelic tones that we cannot realize they 
had their origin in our own mouths. The pulpit, designed 
by Nicola Pisano, is the most distinguishing feature of 
the Baptistry, although secondary in historic interest to 
the lamp of Galileo in the Cathedral nave, which hangs 
suspended by a long iron rod, as it did when it suggested 
the pendulum. 

A visit to the Campo Santa, on the north side of the 
Cathedral, was of exceeding interest. Here we stood on 
holy soil. The space enclosed within the walls frescoed 
by Giotto is filled with earth brought from Jerusalem by 


198 


ALONG A FAMOUS SEA. 


vessels that carried the Tuscan knights to Palestine, in 
the days of Richard and Saladin. On their return this 
earth was brought as ballast, and finally deposited at Pisa 
in this cemetery. It has been the ambition of many great 
and honored ones to be buried in this sacred soil hallowed 
by the footsteps of our Lord. 

Some kind influence must have interposed to have 
averted from us the fate of Lot’s wife, for it was so often 
we looked back. Nothing in the square, as we left, did 
our eyes linger more fondly upon than the Leaning Tower ; 
it is a really elegant structure, when seen with its white 
marble galleries rising tier above tier against a deep-blue 
sky. 

What a delightful ride was that from Pisa to Genoa, 
the road skirting the base of alternate rock and verdure- 
clad heights on our right, while on the left stretched away 
towards the shores of Africa the Mediterranean ! It was 
a faultless afternoon ; the same breezes that filled the sails 
of all nations on that historic watery highway brought 
strength and vigor to us weary ones. You who have 
passed over the same route will recall the dark-green 
olive groves, the castle-crowned hills, the nestling villages 
alon^ the way. We are not so blase that a momentary 
pique is not indulged because of the frequency of tunnels. 
Just as one is all intent upon the loveliness of anew point 
of view the whole is shut out of prospect, as if a black 
curtain had fallen between us and the land waterscape. 

There was no illumination waiting us by the citizens of 
Genoa ; nor could we expect such patricians to so honor 
plain republicans. But a greater than they was kinder, 
for Nature took care that our reception should be of the 
best. As we approached the “ Superb ” the glorious red 
sun was melting into the west, changing the indigo blue 
of the sea into a vast expanse of wavelets tipped with 
rubies ; great bars of orange and purple lay in the southern 
sky ; the scent of lemon-trees came to us on the refresh- 


GENOA AT NIGHT. 


100 


ing breezes ; the proud heights put on their twilight robe 
and bid us hospitable welcome. • 

I shall leave it to the imagination of the reader to pict- 
ure the evening view of Genoa, its semi-circular sweeps 
rising like a grand amphitheatre, and its lamps vying with 
the starry vault overhead. We will leave you in your 
rapture, while we bathe, dine, and retire ; for the inex- 
orable demon of fatigue has again got us in his clutches, 
and instead of being grateful to Genoa for giving us 
Columbus, it is not certain we were not half sorry Queen 
Isabella had been so kind, so he would not have discov- 
ered our continent, and we been spared such wearisome 
travel. 

The cathedral is handsomely inlaid with black and white 
marble. It contains a beautiful chapel dedicated to St. 
John the Baptist. A decree, first promulgated by Pope 
Innocent IX., prohibits women entering here but once a 
year, in consequence of the saint’s death having been 
brought about by the intrigues of a woman. The statue 
of Columbus, by Michel Castoli, completed in 1862, is a 
noble work crowded with figures and adorned with basso 
relievos by Castoli, Varni, Gagini, Cevarco and Revelli, 
all but one artists of Genoa. Was it jealousy that led the 
Academy of Science at Lyons to offer prizes for the best 
essay to prove whether the discovery of our continent had 
been of any benefit toman ? But Genoa will always honor 
her noble son ; his bust is often seen as the figurehead of 
Genoese vessels. 

We visited the cemetery, which we found adorned with 
many rich monuments of modern work, and very bright 
compared to older productions we had seen in other cities. 
One of the most notable resorts in the environs is the 
garden of the Villa Pallavicini. Although a private es- 
tate, many millions have been expended upon the grounds 
which are a maze of fruit trees, flower-beds, grottoes, 
pavilions and artificial views ; all of which, beautiful and 


200 


ALONG A FAMOUS SEA. 


costly as they may be, are secondary to the view of the 
far-reaching blue Mediterranean from the marble terraces 
which also command the matchless sweep of the hills en- 
circling the Gulf of Genoa. In one portion of the garden 
is a little lake, scarcely larger than a lady’s boudoir, com- 
pletely fringed, walled and canopied with foliage; on 
one side is a marble shaft in the form of Cleopatra’s 
Needle, and on the opposite shore a chastely draped 
female figure seated upon a high pedestal. Like the light 
in Rembrandt’s studio, that which is admitted here comes 
through a little opening in the centre of the leafy dome. 
One might think that when the moon peeps through this 
natural skylight and gets a glimpse of its image in the 
lake below, it would stand still to admire its own love- 
liness. 

The streets of Genoa are sadly disappointing ; the mag- 
nificent appearance of the city seen from the heights leads 
one to expect nothing but palaces and gardens ; with the 
exception of three or four grand thoroughfares, the streets 
are narrow, mean, and often dirty. 

Of the extraordinary splendor of the Doria, and other 
palaces, no description will suffice to give the faintest con- 
ception. It is not so much the paintings and statuary, 
although these are of the finest, as the extreme magnifi- 
cence of the halls and their superb furniture multiplied to 
infinity by mirrored walls. We no longer doubt the 
story of one of these Genoa merchant princes who pitched 
his gold and silver plate into the sea after entertaining 
special guests, in order that it should not serve again. It 
is not certain, however, but that the butler was instructed 
to fish up the costly service when the entertained recipi- 
ents of such prodigal hospitality were out of sight. Many 
of the most luxurious of these palaces seem to be put to 
no use other than to furnish tourists objects to stare and 
wonder at. It is easier to calculate how much of Italy’s 
poverty such idle wealth might alleviate than to expect 


FORETASTE OF HOME. 


201 


such a desideratum will ever be brought about. A French 
dilettante has suggested to remedy the monotony of book- 
binding and its lack of suggestion by using scraps of 
brocade, embroidery and velvet. If ever a history of these 
palaces of Genoa is written, it should be bound in brocade 
or cloth of gold. 

The horse-cars have such an American look that, com- 
bined with the sight of the Columbus statue and the Stars 
and Stripes floating from vessels in the harbor, they gave us 
quite a foretaste of home. The feeling was in no degree 
lessened by frequent allusions by fellow-travellers to the 
godmother of the town in the Empire State which con- 
tains so many of our friends — Lyons. This city we can- 
not visit, but are promised Geneva, a name nearly as rich 
in home associations. 

If we are so fortunate as to secure a prolongation of 
time, on our return to England we may hope to plan an 
excursion to the Medway, and learn how nearly our beau- 
tiful Rochester of the Empire State resembles its god- 
mother in I£ent. 


« LITTLE PARIS. ” 


N O brighter, gayer city in Europe than Milan. Clean 
as Philadelphia, solid as Boston, happy as New 
York. Such were my impressions. Would that our 
American ladies could be imbued with some of the inde- 
pendence of their Milanese sisters in respect to attire. 
By the monotony of our fashionable thoroughfares it 
might be supposed one milliner and one dressmaker had 
served every woman met. It is said that people are never 
so well dressed as when you cannot recollect what they 
wore ; this is especially true here, though I will never for- 
get the graceful style of draping the head with a veil ; it 
could not be done more artistically in Madrid. I cannot 
help liking the Milanese, especially the women ; they are 
so animated and unaffected. I think it is they who have 
helped to give the city the title of “ Little Paris. ” As 
for the youth, if possible they are more oblivious of the 
past and future than those of Florence. They seem to 
say, “ Let us have another hour of happiness, no matter 
what comes after.” The fireflies on the Lombardy plains 
are not more aimless or restless than these young men and 
women who fill the principal streets of Milan on their 
evening promenade. Some writer has described a scene 
which is here repeated a thousand fold ; a young person 
overtakes another and inquires where he is going. 

“ Nowhere. ” 

“ Then we are bound for the same place. I will go 
along with you. ” 

Enthusiasm has quite deserted us, although we strive 
202 


THE ROOF OF STATUES. 


203 


to retain sufficient appreciation to recognize the marvels 
to be yet encountered. Yet it is wondrously beautiful, 
that Cathedral whose exterior is an epic in marble, its 
interior a poem, and the roof an idyl. Would that our 
Parisian little lady were here to supply some adequate 
adjectives of admiration, for we are bankrupt in these 
before this marvellous work. 

From the moment after passing the heavy-curtained 
entrance, to the last tinkling of the far-off silver bell at 
the altar, we were as near heaven as mortal may be below ; 
all the grossness of earth is eliminated, and in spirit we 
kneel before Him to whom man has dedicated here his 
most perfect deed. 

Must we call it a roof, those marble-paved ascending 
plains with avenues lined by a hundred spires and two 
thousand statues ? Not the rude chisellings of the stone- 
cutter, but exquisite works of art. The stars of heaven 
look down on no sight so akin to their own celestial 
beauty as when their radiance mingles with the moon- 
beams and falls upon these silent effigies of saints and 
angels. Nay, not all saints, for one of these is Canova’s 
Napoleon, standing in view of the grand arch built to 
commemorate the eon^letion of his Simplon road. Was 
it chance that Napoleon’s hand was chosen out of this 
marble population to support the maze of telegraph wires 
that cross the roof? It is fit that he should hold them, 
— the man who felt “ the pulse of the universe, ” who 
less than three-quarters of a century ago hurled the 
lightning bolts of war wherever he would. 

We ask what there is more to see of cathedrals since 
Cologne, Ulm, Florence, V enice and Rome ? Then 
answers a quiet but confident voice, “York Minster.” 
Were that also captured, it would be the duty of some 
kind friend to point out a yet unconquered — possi- 
bly unconquerable; like the ice cathedral once seen 
floating on the Atlantic, the mighty berg that had 


204 


“ LITTLE PARIS.” 


melted into spires, grottoes, domes, arches and minarets. 

Of course we visited the refectory of the convent 
attached to the Santa Maria delle Grazie, whicli contains 
Leonardo da Vinci’s famed work, “ The Last Supper. ” 
The visit affords no satisfaction, as without having seen 
copies it would be impossible to determine the subject. 
Rev. Dr. Prime, of the JVew York Observer , recently 
gave an interesting account of his visit to the painting in 
1878. A quarter of a century before he had stood in the 
presence of the same work, and one or both of the youths 
then in his care had now gone to the silent land. 

The only members of our party I have known to pub- 
lish books of their travels are a citizen of Hartford and a 
citizen of Vicksburg ; they have given graphic outlines of 
the funny and serious experiences in which we all more 
or less were participants. They did not appear to be very 
enthusiastic in praise of the beauty of the women 
of Europe, and which I account for in consequence 
of our seeing more of the dark-featured women of Italy 
than any others. I do not think one of us saw in Venice 
a woman that would be called handsome from the Ameri- 
can standpoint. How dark they are, even those of the 
better classes, who are not obliged to expose themselves to 
the sun. The American girls, with their complexions 
like apple-blossoms, where the delicate pink is striving to 
overcome the white, are the cynosures of all eyes wher- 
ever they appear in the Continental cities. Of the male 
Italians, those of the finest physique we saw were Nea- 
politans. From their accredited character they are 
unworthy the admiration they often elicit. 

But at Milan it should not be forgotten we are in a 
better atmosphere, both moral and physical, than at 
Naples, matchless for natural loveliness. For our fare- 
well glimpse of Milan, the beautiful city we may never 
behold again, we make a final ascent of the Cathedral 
roof. Where may we look for a book on the flora of this 


MARBLE FLOWERS. 


205 


roof? . For here are marble beds of marble flowers so 
exquisitely chiselled as to represent the articulations of 
the leaves. They only lack color and scent to be instinct 
with life. We did not think it possible for marble to 
lend itself so readily to taking on the delicate forms of 
floral life. 

Better than all the tonics in our medicine satchels is 
this view before us, while the cool airs from the Apen- 
nines and the Alps sweeping over the vast plains of Lom- 
bardy comes to us in welcome profusion. With Mont 
Blanc and the Matterhorn in view, we came near being as 
fixed a portion of the roof as the statues around us. At 
the sight of the Alpine range, a renewed enthusiasm begins 
to be felt, vitalizing body and mind. 

My favorite point of view from whence to study the exte- 
rior of the Cathedral was between the last blocks on the 
Corso Vittorio Emanuel ; although from there the entire 
fapade is unseen, the transept window and spire stand out 
so clear against the unclouded sky, and in stronger relief 
from the shadows of the buildings about us, as to make it 
an eligible point of view for those desiring the most striking 
pictorial effect. We understand in some degree the 
enthusiasm of these who have helped to convert the 
quairies of Condoglio into this architectural dream, to 
which Galeazzo Visconti sacrificed the larger portion of 
his rich booty and jewels. Shrewd Boniface IX., there 
was a bit of the Yankee in your composition when you 
promised to all Lombards who should make a pilgrimage 
to Milan, instead of one to Rome, the same indulgences 
with the proviso that one-third of the expenses saved by 
the lesser journey should be given to the building of the 
Cathedral before us. Upwards of one hundred millions 
of dollars, they tell it has cost ! In soberer moments we 
might be drawn into economic speculations, and carefully 
figure out how many thousand little parish churches that 
sum would build. It is a rich world, however, this beauti- 


206 


“ LITTLE PARIS” 


ful one of ours ; and just now we are in no mood to grum- 
ble because man has given some of its treasures better 
shape for soul nourishment than the golden ingots hid in 
the vaults of the Bank of England and the United States 
Treasury. 

We thank you, Mrs. , for taking us out to the 

Porta Ticinese, one of the twelve gates of Milan, other- 
wise we should have missed having seen the noble col- 
umr^ of San Lorenzo, than which those on the Roman 
Forum are not more elegant ; in the centre of a wide street 
rise sixteen Corinthian marble columns, isolated from 
all connections, said to be the ruins of a portico of a 
vast thermal structure ; poets have sung of their classic 
beauty, and how they have escaped the artist one can only 
explain upon the ground that nearly every square foot of 
Italian territory was created for his purpose, and two 
thousand years of art-life have not provided sufficient 
time to reproduce the whole. 

We have left Art behind us, and now we are going to 
enter the Sanctuary of Nature. 


FROM ART TO NATURE. 


I S not this exasperating? To long for years for Como, 
the Laga di Garda, and Maggiore, and then to visit 
Italy without beholding them. It was night when we 
passed along Maggiore, and, of course, lost whatever the 
lake may have of the picturesque. There would have 
been some consolation could we have had an hour at Isola 
Bella. Yes, we did have a glimpse of the south end of 
Maggiore on our arrival from Milan at Arona, where we 
had a late dinner. Arona is a bright, cheerful little stop- 
ping-place, bustling as a Yankee shire town on court day. 
The ceaseless stream of tourists in the travelling season 
leaves many a penny in the tills of its inhabitants. It is 
literally under the protection of good Saint Charles Bor- 
romeo, he whose corpse is so costly enshrined at Milan. 
Not all the saints of man’s canonization do we like so 
well as Saint Charles, Archbishop of Milan ; the cries 
of suffering humanity never failed to reach his ears and 
heart. He was born at Arona, and his gigantic statue 
stands upon a high hill overlooking the village, upon which 
he seems to gaze with filial love. 

We are on our way to the Alps. Domo d’Ossola, the 
last village before the ascent commences, is reached about 
five in the morning. It is unnecessary to say that there was 
an appetite for the breakfast awaiting us here ; and Conti- 
nental breakfasts were not so often to our liking that we 
cannot afford to speak a good word for one that really is ; 
w r hen an apology is made for the eggs because they were 
no later laid than the previous day, such conscientiousness 

207 


208 


FROM ART TO NATURE. 


is worth recording. I think my readers will bear witness 
that they have been spared an analysis of the menu of 
each hotel where we have been quartered, nearly all of 
which were first-class. It has been said that the Ameri- 
cans go abroad to get up an appetite. These pages shall 
not betray that this extended tour was undertaken for the 
purpose of studying and enjoying the cuisine of Europe. 
This much may be added, however, that the average 
American housekeeper will return from Europe with the 
conviction that outside of Paris there is no table to equal 
the home breakfast, dinner and testable. 

I don’t know how many crowded diligences there were 
that took our party out from Domo d’Ossola ; enough to 
give us quite the appearance of a caravan, for there is no 
use in ignoring the fact that tourists in the concrete are 
looked upon as a sort of a show. The only difference 
between us and ordinary spectacles is that we pay for 
being seen, instead of being paid. 

Gorges, caverns, precipices, thundering cataracts, the 
debris of falling avalanches — all these and much more are 
now around and about us. The day is perfect, and the 
air intoxicating. Some dismount to gather Alpine flora, 
or to enjoy the luxury of flinging snowballs in August, or 
to speculate over a huge ice-boulder that has rolled down 
from the loftier heights. Then is the driver’s chance to 
hurry up the declivities, and make the laggers run to 
regain the deserted seats. Never shall we have another 
ride of such mingled pleasure, astonishment and fear, for 
not all the sublimity of the scenes unfolding before us can 
lessen the instinctive horror at the awful depths below. 
No sooner is one yawning gulf out of sight behind us than 
another of more frightful depth lies in front. In vain I 
sought to divert my mind from these when passing through 
the Gorge of Gondo, a chasm cut five hundred and ninety- 
six feet through the solid rock, by looking upward. 

At last the Hospice, near the highest point of the pass, 


AN ALPINE GALE. 


209 


was reached. Now came the most formidable part of the 
trip — the descent. Those drivers’ lives are certainly 
insured, and they wish to give their wives the benefit. 
You recollect how you gaze with hated breath over the 
Pisa tower belfry and other heights, hut here you are 
whirled at a break-neck speed on the very edge of preci- 
pices which would make you shudder to see an eagle de- 
scend. In addition to this the wind had arisen, and was 
now blowing a gale, making the stunted vegetation growing 
on the sides of the abyss to sway as if it would be torn from 
its bed. Those who were seated on the top of the dili- 
gence could only keep their positions by the greatest exer- 
tions. This haste was ostensibly to catch the train at 
Brieg, which it is not certain but the artful drivers knew 
was already gone ; at least the hotel men at Brieg were 
evidently not much depressed at our misfortune, which 
forced us upon their hospitality for the night. For some 
reason choice accommodations were more than monopo- 
lized by those arriving earlier. The room assigned me 
was not palatial ; it was in the garret ; and there before 
me were the freshly made notes on the palaces of Genoa! 

A morning ride, the next day, along the cool valley of 
the Rhone, brought us to Martigny at noon. This is a 
poor town, but it has rich relations near by. In a little 
grove in the centre of the town is the most remarkable 
sign-post in the world, pointing the way to the two great 
roads crossing the Alps ; on one side it reads “ Simplon,” 
on the other, “ St. Bernard,” both practicable for carriages. 

Who are left at home to care for the children and the 
house? Such is your involuntary exclamation at Mar- 
tigny* f° r the heads of the world’s families appear to 
be here on the threshold of these great portals leading 
over the Alps. 

Martigny is environed with scenery of the most inspir- 
ing character, to which the union of the Drause with the 
Rhone lends an added charm. The view from the bridge 


210 


FROM ART TO NATURE. 


spanning the Drause, and of the Castle of La Batie, one 
of the strongholds of the Archbishop of Sion, will repay 
the lover of the picturesque for many an hour. We 
visited the Falls of Pissevache, which Southey should 
have seen before he wrote “How does the water come 
down at Lodore ? ” These falls would be beautiful, were 
they not so frightful and angry. They descend from the 
glaciers of the Dent du Midi, and after foaming and 
dashing over a succession of black rock gorges and 
ravines, take a final plunge of two hundred feet into a 
boiling cauldron, whose horror is partially veiled from us 
by the beautiful mist which the grateful flood sends aloft 
in praise that it has reached a resting-place after all its 
turmoil. 

A few hours later, we are snugly stowed away in car- 
riages, each holding from four to six persons, bound for 
Chamouni, via the Tete Noir. The way is narrow, but 
we go upward so easily in our carriage that the fact that 
this originally was nothing but a mule path is forgotten, 
were it not that the refractory mule put on as a leader to 
our horses, serves to remind us that his race once had the 
quadrupedal sway of the road. 

If there was any circumstance to detract from an unal- 
loyed pleasure in the ride to Chamouni, it is not now in 
my power to recall it. For the first time in Alpine re- 
gions, my mind was relieved of any anxieties for personal 
safety, although we continued to approach the edge of 
gorges of such depth as to cause us to keep an eye upon 
the erratic movements of the aforesaid mule. 

How deeply blue was the sky ; how intense the sunlight 
as it fell upon the eastern slopes ; every moment the pan- 
orama widens as we attain higher altitudes. Here is a 
shabby hut resting like an eagle’s nest upon a projecting 
crag; another, nestling beneath a frowning cliff; their 
roofs are dotted with huge stones to more readily keep 
them in place when they are assailed by the terrible winds 









* 





On the road to Chamounix. 


♦ 













IDEALS . 


211 


and storms. The fancy loves to paint the life in those 
abodes to correspond with the idealistic descriptions of 
Rousseau ; but it is more probable that the prosaic narra- 
tions of Chateaubriand are nearer the truth. How little 
can these mountain peasants know of the social amenities 
which are so necessary to our happiness. An almost 
impassable gorge or valley will isolate one cottager from 
his neighbor. These wonders of nature touch no answer- 
ing chords in their bosoms ; no sentiment is suggested to 
them by their varying lights and shadows. The moun- 
tain heights, so glorious to us, are to them Hill Difficulty 
a thousand-fold multiplied. Unceasing toil of the rudest 
character is their lot, as it was that of their fathers before 
them. For them there is no world outside the Alps. An 
emperor may be assassinated, and a mighty nation stand 
weeping around the bier of a murdered president — these 
are events that cause less interest here than the finding of 
the body of a dead cow that has fallen over the treacher- 
ous cliff. They have heard of our land across the sea, but 
the stars above them seem much nearer. 

Higher yet. Gray and white peaks, wreathed in gar- 
lands of clouds, are making for us a horizon only equalled 
by that from the Rigi-Kulm. Ragged boulders and rocks 
rise from our path in natural confusion no artificial imita- 
tion could excel. Here we descend from the carriage to 
gather the rhododendron, or Alpine rose, and the lovely 
blue gentian, which often is found at the very edge of a 
snow bank. Beyond our reach are the orange lily, ferns 
and mosses, and plants kindred to these, on parks no 
human foot has ever trod. One of our ladies in reaching 
for some blossoms below the path, slipped, and was only 
saved from a fall over the heights by a movement which 
sprained her wrist so badly that her hand was useless for 
several days. The carriage which contained my oldest 
son broke down, and its occupants, including several ladies, 
were forced to walk a long distance until another was sent 


212 


FROM ART TO NATURE. 


to them from Chamouni, where they did not arrive until 
midnight. 

It would not be possible for mere words to convey the 
impression made upon us by the first comparatively near 
view of Mont Blanc, when we reached that portion of 
the pass from which it was visible, rising from the grand 
amphitheatre of lesser heights, which swell on and on, the 
petrified waves of a mountain ocean. 

It was just an hour before midnight that the first car- 
riage, in which I chanced to be placed, reached Chamou- 
ni. This advantage, however, proved to be of no avail, 
for the room I had supposed secured for myself was 
assigned to my son, at that moment several miles aw T ay. 
I was accordingly posted off to another hotel at the 
extreme end of the town, which was not found until after 
a series of incidents that seem very ludicrous now, but 
were any thing but funny at the time. To add to our dis- 
comforts, our luggage was lost, but was finally found. 
An hour p^st midnight the whole party, including the 
members who were sore from their compulsory pilgrimage 
on foot, was snugly quartered at the various hotels and 
pensions. 

A magnificent sunrise, gilding Mont Blanc with burn- 
ished gold on its eastern face, melting into rose where it 
neared the shadows, was my reward for an early rising 
the next morning. Later in the day I watched through a 
telescope a party making the ascent of Mont Blanc, 
^ wearily toiling up the dangerous heights by aid of ropes 
and alpenstocks. Much as I might enjoy the wonderful 
views, I do not care to risk life for such purpose. The 
first woman who ascended Mont Blanc was Mile. Parides, 
who reached the summit in 1809. I have no curiosity to 
search for any wayside memorials she may have traced 
in the snow and ice on her upward journey. Miss Lucy 
Walker, an English young lady of eighteen years of age, 
ascended the Finsteraarhorn (fourteen thousand one hun- 


the ugly donkey. 


213 


dred and six feet high) in 1862 , and Miss Luise Brunner of 
Berne climbed the same heights three years later. The 
precious lives of Americans and Englishmen that have 
been sacrificed on the Matterhorn and Mont Blanc, bring 
their dangers more vividly to us as we gaze on their glit- 
tering crowns and peaks. Only a few days before our 
arrival, a young man who had made seven ascents of Mont 
Blanc, emboldened by his repeated successes, neglected to 
take hold of the rope at an important moment, and was 
sent whirling down the awful precipice, a mangled, bleed- 
ing mass. 

I am willing to adopt ordinary customs of a land in 
which I chance to be travelling, but I draw the line at a 
donkey. A lady of our party, however, was less fastidious 
and we watched with considerable interest her struggle 
with one of those refractory animals ; notwithstanding 
that she had the aid of both the driver and aguide, it seemed 
that she was never to gajn a seat upon his back ; his fore 
feet were planted firmly upon the earth at a most defiant 
angle ; the amount of expression that animal managed to 
concentrate in the gleam of his eyes and the backward 
slope of his ears, defies description. The driver now 
changed his tactics and brought out a sort of ladder by 
which the lady might reach the coveted seat by a sudden 
leap ; but the donkey’s strategy was equal to their cun- 
ning, for he elevated his hind heels at such a height and 
with such vigor that the lady gave up in despair, and the 
beast was led away triumphant. Miss Amelia Edwards* 
who has lately ascended the Nile, speaks even more 
discouragingly of the camel as an aid to a lady’s locomotion. 
“He has,” she says, “four motions; his slow walk is very 
much like being in a small boat in a chop sea ; his fast 
walk dislocates every bone in your body ; his trot drives 
you to insanity, while his gallop is almost instant destruc- 
tion.” As we went no farther east than Pompeii, we 
were spared this delightful experience. 


214 


FROM ART TO NATURE. 


Happily, none of our American caricaturists were pres- 
ent when those of us who made an excursion to the 
Mer de Glace departed from Chamouni. Let us hope 
that the art of taking a photograph of a person who is 
unconscious of the act, was not an accompli fait at that 
time. The Mer de Glace disappointed me ; it by no 
means suggests a sea of ice. As a petrified river of 
sleet and half-melted ice, making an invisible flow down- 
wards, it is rich in eloquent study. The fissures along 
which we walked, and sometimes crossed, were almost 
appalling; you look down into depths which appear bot- 
tomless ; by placing your ear at the edge of these depths 
you can hear the rushing of rills far below, but which are 
invisible. The depth of some of these glacial seas is from 
six to eight hundred feet; Hugi, a German naturalist, 
explored one at a distance of a mile, and found it to be as 
honey-combed with galleries as the Catacombs of St. 
Calixtus, where our experiences were so needlessly terrify- 
ing ; here and there pillars were standing which sup- 
ported the vast ice deposits above ; when these crumble 
the mass falls in and moves forward, which is the cause of 
the flow of the Mer de Glace. 

More beautiful is the living water of the Alps, the 
cascades and torrents on the Brenner and Tete Koir we 
have passed. They are to the mountains what bright, 
chatting children are at a garden party where solemn 
elders congregate. I recall one of rare beauty near the 
Gorge of Gondo, a wide sheet falling over a perpendicular 
cliff, so uniform and unbroken that it actually looked 
motionless, like a vast strip of satin drapery hanging over 
the mountain side. 

There is something in these Alpine worlds that develops 
a species of selfishness. I longed to get away from the 
crowd of guides and tourists of all nations who make 
Chamouni, otherwise so delightful, a perfect Babel. 
With what delight would we leave the beaten paths and 


GRAND POINT OF SIGHT. 


215 


seek out the thousand untrodden haunts in these moun- 
tains, virgin spots unpraised by guide-book makers and 
travellers whose eulogies are a bid for enthusiasm. 

How grateful was I to my Creator for having brought 
me here to the portals which lead to His presence. From 
the hundred-spired Cathedral we had left behind at 
Milan, we were now brought to worship in one of a thou- 
sand domes, reared by the hand that created the heavens 
and the earth. 

The last night of our stay at Chamouni will never be 
forgotten. F rom the seclusion of my little balcony I looked 
out upon the great Monarch of Mountains. The evening 
sun, the gold and salmon clouds, and the hues of velvet 
softness lingering upon the peaks, had all departed ; the 
new harvest moon and the stars looked down from a sky 
which was nothing less than the floor of heaven. What 
untranslatable thoughts and emotions overpowered my 
soul ! How far away was the world of business cares, 
disease and pain. I thought of good Dr. Cheever, Dr. 
Bellows, and other lofty minds that here have had a fore- 
taste of those ineffable glories which they are now enjoy- 
ing before the Great White Throne. 

As we saw the Lake of the Four Cantons, with violet- 
tinted cliffs rising clear and sharp from its bosom where 
lay mirrored a pale rose sky, we could have par- 
doned any for leaping in. Yet at the first intimation of 

C to leap over the boat I involuntarily shuddered ; 

not at the thought he would ruin his cadet suit, but at 
the awful depths of the lake, from five to eight hundred 
feet. I will never again find it in my heart to reprimand 
my boys for their love of lake and river bathing. As we 
glide along, the water looks just as Schiller has described 
it : “ The lake is smiling ; it invites one to bathe.” 

Our baths at Wiesbaden had a wonderful rejuvenating 
effect; but it would seem from a plunge in here one might 
rise a perfect Undine. 


216 


FROM ART TO NATURE. 


But those cliffs ! Can there be anything more lovely? 
In the less rugged portions they are wreathed with wild 
vines and dotted Avith shrubs, the latter looking like con- 
cave emerald reliefs fastened to the face of the rocks. 
Here and there are little uplands that intervene between 
the lake and the cliffs ; these are spangled with blue, yel- 
low and red wild floAvers Avhich a glass brought so near 
the boat Ave could almost decide their botanical rank. 
We are all in ecstasies over these, Avhile the men and boys 
are chatting about Tell, boAvs and arrows and apple- 
shooting. 

I ha\ r e never seen animate nature more perfectly in 
harmony Avith its background than the feAV solitary storks 
along the base of these cliffs, standing poised upon one 
foot in that dreamy pose the designers of screens and 
dados never tire of reproducing. This bird is as much at 
home along the marly Reuss as the SAvans and ducks on 
the Rhone at Rousseau’s Isle ; at Strasburg, where they 
torture their geese to tickle the palate of man with pate 
de foie gras, the stork is absolutely venerated, and the 
householder is happy Avhen it makes its nest upon his 
chimney-top. 

Were it not that mere description of localities are nec- 
essarily tiresome, I should be tempted to attempt it here. 
The Lake of the Four Cantons is in the form of St. 
Andrew’s cross, Lucerne at the head, Alpnach and Kiiss- 
nachtatthe arm extremities, and Uri at the foot. When 
you are told that at many points you can count forty 
peaks, including Rigi and Pilatus, an idea may be formed 
of the extraordinary loveliness of the views; the vistas 
continually opening and closing as you glide over the 
water arouse those of us Avho thought a neAV sensation 
Avas impossible. We passed Toll’s Chapel, built in 1388, 
on the east shore; it is an unpretending little pavilion, 
overhung Avith charming foliage ; the lake here is about 
eight hundred feet deep, and Ave have lost all desire to 


LUCERNE. 


217 


search for Undine. You will recollect that this is the 
spot where the patriot leaped from Gessler’s boat as he 
Avas being taken to prison, and hid himself in the recesses 
of the mountains. In making the circuit of the lake, the 
eye often lingers fondly upon the tiny Swiss cottages 
along roads which are narrow shelfs clinging to the cliffs ; 
the toy houses that afforded us so much delight in child- 
hood were the counterparts of these. 

Lucerne we found as full of life as a bee-hive; full 
of weary tourists and correspondingly happy landlords. 
The old part of the town, with its crooked streets, quaint 
chimneys and high gables, is not without picturesque 
interest. The lighthouse from which it takes its name is 
a peaked tower in the centre of the river Reuss ; the 
archives of history, dating from the day of Tell, and 
which relate to Swiss rebellion against Austrian oppres- 
sion, are deposited here and held in great reverence. The 
lion designed by Thorwaldsen to commemorate the 
defence of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, Aug. 10, 
1792, is the most powerful and affecting memorial I 
have ever beheld. A niche is cut out of a solid rock in 
which is carved an expiring lion nearly thirty feet long 
and eighteen feet high. The pose is as touching as that 
of the “Dying Gladiator” ; over the niche hang long ten- 
drils, and the water percolating through the rock seems 
like tears Nature is shedding for the fallen — brave — 
even though they w'ere defending a decaying monarchy. 
The conception is nothing less than an inspiration of the 
highest genius. 

We lingered long on one of the two bridges which span 
the Reuss, the only picture gallery we have ever found 
built on water. The paintings on the walls are fantastic 
and ancient, but very bright. It is delightful to stand 
here and watch the steamboats darting hither and thither 
and the fishermen patiently trying their luck in the lake. 
The most tender violets, purples and rose, mantle the dis- 


218 


FROM ART TO NATURE. 


tant peaks and cliffs as the sun declines ; and as the evening 
advances the lights of the houses and hotels drawn in 
long reflections on the lake make the scene like fairy- 
land. 

The skeptic who sets down William Tell for a myth 
had better promulgate his ideas and theories at a distance 
from Lucerne. But there have not been wanting those 
so heterodox as to do no less than this here among the 
scenes of his exploits ; one such having put his arguments 
in print, had his work publicly burnt. The very atmos- 
phere is rife with reminiscences of the patriot. It is safe 
to conclude that so long as mankind is enamored with 
Mountains and Liberty, Tell will be as tangible as George 
W ashington. 

The vox humana of the Lucerne organ exceeds all ever 
conceived of the resources of the organ ; it was not until 
positively assured that I had not been listening to a con- 
cealed choir of voices that I could admit those seraphic 
tones were the result of human mechanism and skill. We 
had now heard four of the great organs of Europe, and 
played with such power we feel no harmony of earth can 
ever equal for us again. 

The tolling of the convent bell introduced in the Alp- 
storm played on the Fribourg organ, and the imagined 
voices in the roof of the Lucerne Cathedral are so heav- 
enly as to afford delight too great for words. It was at 
such moments we more than ever realized the certainty 
of an eternal home awaiting the faithful. The emotions 
and aspirations born of the sights and sounds we had en- 
joyed in our last days in Italy and Switzerland could 
never find rest or satisfaction in this ephemeral exist- 
ence. 

Hospitable, busy, delightful Geneva! Here, at last, 
is a spot where there is nothing to cavil at ; for they who 
could not abide here are those who seek Utopia. Climate, 
society, associations and scenery combine, with com- 


SWANS OF LAKE LEMAN. 


219 


parative cheapness of living, to make Geneva one of 
the most eligible residences of Europe. 

Our ride hither by diligence from Chamouni was 
fraught with views which are among the choicest cabinet 
gems in the halls of memory. When the first glimpse of 
the famed lake was caught through a rich foliage vista, 
every pulse quickened with the fervor born of a new 
delight. 

Have you ever sat upon a Geneva pier and listened to 
the sobbing Rhone as it flows swiftly between the piles, 
or lingered at twilight around the base of Rousseau’s 
statue on the little island below its larger sister ? Then 
you know how poorly words can convey to others the elo- 
quence and beauty of fair Geneva. Of your morning sail 
over the calm bosom of the lake, your dalliance with the 
swans of Leman, all the while Mont Blanc is thrusting his 
white head into the blue vault of heaven, diverting your 
avaricious eyes from the chains of villa and garden on 
either shore — no ; we will leave all these to the artists who 
make of them a specialty; what is a jar of ink to their 
twenty tubes of as many tints ! And they have their 
native artists, as you will find in the Athenee, the perma- 
nent exhibition endowed by Madame Eynard, and in the 
Muree Rath. 

I care not if the tourist spends a month in Savoy and 
the Alps, he has not seen Switzerland without making 
the circuit of Lake Leman — that land-and-water paradise 
hedged in by snow-capped heights. Who wonders that 
young Tell asked his father if there was any land where 
there were no mountains ? Other pictures may fade, but 
this, at least, is indelible ; it is photographed upon my 
heart. Goethe speaks for thousands : “When my whole 
soul is so filled with the world around and the sky above 
that I feel as if I was gazing upon the form of one I love, 
then my heart swells with yearning, and I think to myself : 
Ah ! if I could only commit to paper some of the glow- 


220 


FROM ART TO NATURE. 


ing images which teem within, so that they should be a 
perfect image of my soul ! ” 

The view of Mont Blanc was so distinct from Lake 
Leman that it is with some question that one regards 
the statement that it is visible from Geneva but sixty 
times a year. The enthusiasm with which it was greeted 
by my son and other youths, reminds me that it has been 
ascended by Horace de Saussure, the fourteen-year-old son 
of the naturalist. 

The lake was swarming with pleasure parties as we 
passed along its shores. In boats and canopied barges, 
from which floated out enlivening strains, were seen gayly- 
attired peasants from the valley of the Rhone and the 
lovely towns around Geneva. The hills sloping down to 
the mazarine waters are delightfully clothed with the 
Spanish chestnut, the walnut, beech, pine and oak, with 
which are mingled the sight and scent of the grape-vine 
and narcissus leaf — and these must be the very waters 
where the beautiful youth, namesake of the plant, beheld 
his own image and fell in love with the reflection. 

What a volume could be written concerning the asso- 
ciations of immortal names with the environs of Geneva 
— Knox, Calvin, Voltaire, Madame de Stael, Rousseau, 
Gibbon, Byron, D’Aubigne ; theology, science, belles lettres 
and history — for here were written the “ Decline and 
Fall ” and the “ Reformation ” ! How rich the memories 
of Coppet and the brilliant circle that gathered around 
the author of “ Corinne. ” 

What a pretty legend is that of the origin of the lovely 
towns along Lake Leman ! There was a magic ship filled 
with happy youth that appeared one sunny morning, and 
in the midst of this little band stood a tall, fair maiden, in 
flowing locks of gold and wind-swept drapery, who pointed 
to the south. When the barque reached the designated 
spot the maiden and her little band landed and founded 
Geneva ; they then continued along the shores, scattering 


CUCKOO CLOCKS. 


221 


roses over the earth, which ever since has blossomed like a 
garden. It is over the track they followed you will find 
the villas of Byron, Grisi, Baron Adolph Rothschild, 
D’Aubigne and Voltaire. Intervening, are innumerable 
mansions and villas of less celebrity, but almost equal 
beauty, sheltered by the most charming wood-crowned 
heights and grove-valleys possible to conceive. 

The time of the traveller flies so swiftly at Geneva that 
the inhabitants make annually two hundred thousand 
watches that he may note it. Such a ticking of these and 
whirring of music-box barrels ! And the shops, more 
aggravating to depleted purses than the Ponte Vecchio at 
Florence. Do you not smile as you think of the time 
when you used to manage to drop in at Schaus’ gallery, 
below Stewart’s, about noon, to hear the cuckoos, as both 
hands met on the XII ? Such multiplicity for devices in 
music-boxes ! To take a seat in a guileless-looking chair, 
or to touch the back of a jewelled swan, may bring upon 
your startled head an aria from Verdi, or a Wagnerian 
grand march. 

If one could only come to Geneva and remain long 
enough to take advantage of the social enjoyments with 
which it abounds! I think in this respect I should prefer 
Geneva to Florence, as to the moral and religious tone. 
But Calvin, could he return, would not find the Geneva 
of his time. We saw the pulpit from which the staid old 
Trinitarian preached. It was impossible to refrain from 
a fit of moralizing at the sight. 

The Rhone enters, passes through and issues from Lake 
Leman, very much as the Jordan does at the Lake of 
Tiberius. Geneva is built on both sides of the river and 
connected by six or eight bridges. In the older parts of 
the city the buildings are very lofty, the streets narrow 
and crooked ; in the modern quarters there is every indi- 
cation of elegance, culture and wealth. The environs are 
nothing less than a chain of luxuriant gardens, enclosing 


222 


FROM ART TO NATURE. 


in each link a lovely villa. The varied shades of vegeta- 
tion in the region, blending in perfect harmony, afforded 
me delight too great to be interpreted in mortal language. 
Let us not accuse those of undue sensibility who confess 
they have been moved to tears when bidding farewell to 
these Arcadian scenes. 

The visit to the lofty castle of Chillon and its eloquent 
dungeon yielded the same pleasure it has to a million 
others. The structure is in no sense beautiful, but in its 
associations and surroundings is of a most soul-moving 
interest. 

On our return from this delightful excursion those of 
the party who had neglected an early preparation for the 
Bernese Oberland were now forced to an expeditious pack- 
ing. The discomforts of the heat and dust we left behind 
in Italy were now almost equalled by the “madding 
crowds ” we meet at every turn. Switzerland is literally 
besieged by tourists ; the scenes that were such a marvel 
in the streets of Philadelphia, in 1876, are here repeated 
annually in the travelling season. Individual tourists, 
family parties, clubs, schools and their teachers, fairly 
swarm at every stage of our journey after crossing into 
Swiss territory. No wonder the hotels at Rigi are re- 
garded as better than gold mines. But I will not tell of 
those so long as I stand here on the bridge over the Rhone, 
whose “ arrowy ” title is no misnomer, looking down into 
its deep cerulean tide in which I had seen the stars mir- 
rored the night before. Further on, it is joined by the 
turbulent Arve flowing down from Mont Blanc, but too 
dirty to be a fit ambassador from the monarch w T hose head 
is crowned with a depth of sixty feet of virgin snow. At 
first the pure Rhone shrinks from this rude intruder, and 
retires to the opposite shore, for a long way the two 
streams flowing side by side, the line of unmingling as 
sharply defined as the shore itself ; but at last the Rhone 
is overcome and loses its pristine purity as the Arve affili- 


BOY-FISHERMEN. 


223 


ates with its waters. Is not this typical of life, when 
innocence is forced into companionship with vice? u We 
first endure, then pity, then embrace.” 

“ Mother, do hurry ; we shall certainly be left.” 

I3ut this was not the first time I had heard a certain 
tall young man utter the same words in various parts of 
the Continent, and “ mother ” was never once left through- 
out the trip. She surely would have been now, however, 
if the impulse to go over again to the little Rousseau isle 
had been followed ; for it is a spot where time treads less 
noisily than in the watch stores of Geneva; there is some- 
thing in its calm beauty, and the mild expression of Ros- 
seau’s statue, which is captivating to the reflective mind. 

As we hurry to the hotel we linger a moment to enjoy 
the rapture of two English lads over a fish of less than a 
finger’s length that one of them has hauled out of the 
stream. Who would not be a boy to whom happiness is 
so cheap and easy ? The adjoining lake has been a prolific 
fishing-ground from time immemorial ; in the pre-historie 
time the aborigines built their huts in Lake Leman on 
piles, and fished through a trap-door in the floor. The boys 
in infancy were tied by a cord to a timber to prevent fall- 
ing through the opening. 

Off at last ! As we pass from one canton to another we 
notice the marked change in prevailing customs ; although 
the boundary lines are more frequent than those of coun- 
ties in New York, the costume and money are as dissimi- 
lar as though of different nationalities. The money is of 
no annoyance to us, as one of the advantages of this mode 
of travel is that the conductor takes entire charge of all 
such details where expenditure is demanded. In the 
Swiss cantons the money of one canton will not pass with- 
out discount in another. We have yet to see any circu- 
lating medium to equal the American greenback. The 
head-gear of the female peasants we passed was of the 
quaintest. Often a broad-brim hut without perceptible 


224 


FROM ART TO NATURE. 


crown, and as often a man’s high peaked hat. The effect 
is more bizarre than even paintings of Swiss life had led 
us to expect. 

It was with no ordinary feelings that we retired, on 
Saturday evening, at Fribourg; we had had no Sabbath, 
in the home sense, for two months, and the morrow we 
determined should be a true day of rest, sans castles, sans 
jncture-galleries, sans all worldly ways ; for our visit to 
the cathedral was certainly not a worldly delight, for 
Ilerr Yogt and the organ take you to the very gates of 
the Celestial City. The organ is of modern construction, 
built by Moser, with seven thousand, eight hundred pipes 
and sixty-four stops. The effect when a full orchestra is 
imitated is little short of marvellous. In one of the selec- 
tions played there was a passage where the trombone, the 
clarinet, the flute and the cornet seemed to melt and 
dissolve in the organ accompaniment, above which soared 
the sharp, clear tones of the trumpet, succeeded by the 
vox humana of such ravishing sweetness that it seems as 
if the very seraphs must be listening entranced above the 
vaulted roof. The performance closed with the famous 
imitation of a thunder-storm in the Alps ; the distant 
rumblings, the explosive peals, the bursting clouds, the 
swaying trees and cries of affrighted cattle, are given with 
such fidelity to nature that the vibration of the edifice 
seems more the result of the storm than of the escaping 
wind in the gigantic pipes. The clearing-up of the tem- 
pest is inimitable; you hear the toll of the convent vesper 
bell, the low of home-returning kine ; you can almost see 
the luminous rainbow between the last diamond raindrops 
as you hear the grateful song of the birds rejoicing in the 
light of the now unclouded sun. It was long before we 
came to earth after this wonderful display, to which no 
description can do justice. 

Fribourg contains but little to interest the tourist 
beyond its organ concerts and magnificent suspension 


NOSTALGIA. 


225 


bridges spanning the valley of the Gotteron. One of 
these is almost sublime from its great length and height, 
apparently a mere spider’s web attached to opposite cliffs, 
but which will support any weight that can be placed 
upon it ; such a work, and the successful completion of 
the Brooklyn Bridge, prove that no feat of engineering is 
impossible to man. 

The country beyond the old walls and decayed fortifica- 
tions of Fribourg is delightfully fresh and healthy. The 
cattle are such as Cuyp studied, and we saw large draught- 
horses so familiar in Albert Diirer’s engravings. The 
geographical features of the region are decidedly home- 
like, therefore beautiful, and so vividly reminded of the 
country about Batavia and Canandaigua,, that the same 
nostalgia that made me so wretched at Heidelberg attacked 
me here. Neuralgia may be productive of more physical 
pain, but it is less depressing. 


THE SWISS WASHINGTON. 


“Ah, that such beauty, varying in the light 
Of living nature, cannot be portrayed 
Bv words, nor by the pencil’s silent skill, 
But is the property of those alone 
Who have beheld it, noted it with care, 

And in their minds recorded it with love. ” 


O PINIONS of American travellers are at wide 
variance concerning the noted resorts of Europe. 
Many claim that they are over-estimated and the descrip- 
tions exaggerated. There can be, however, but one opin- 
ion of the Alps, the ridge-pole of Europe, from which the 
water falls on one side into the Mediterranean, and on the 
other into the German Ocean and Atlantic. 

It cannot be denied that the Alps derive some of their 
charm from their association with lands of song, legend 
and romance ; yet, divested of all these adventitious aids, 
they still remain peerless. In the retrospective glance I 
here give of my observations in the mountain regions of 
Italy and Switzerland, in company with my fellow-tour- 
ists, I shall make no effort to restrain the sentiment they 
engender in the mind of any being capable of considering 
that these elevations were created for a purpose, and are 
not the results of mere accidental causes. I am aware 
that in this utilitarian age, and especially with a people so 
practical as Americans, sentiment is ignored ; if it does not 
find an outcome in the Alps it is pretty safe to ever after 
lie dormant. 

I believe the love of natural scenery is a very general 
instinct; with myself, I do not know but it assumes an 

226 


HOME SCENES. 


227 


abnormal phase. In early girlhood when I was familiar 
with no higher elevations than those around Norwich-on- 
Thames, and the bluffs of the north shore of Long Island, 
as seen from New London, I would sit for hours upon some 
gentle knoll, making outlines of my imaginary Alps in 
the high-piled clouds, and every chance vessel in our har- 
bor with the name of a Mediterranean port upon its hull 
was as beautiful in my eyes as the barge of Cleopatra, for 
it had sailed from the enchanted land. I could enter fully 
into the feelings of Mrs. Hamlin, the missionary, who de- 
scribes in her memoirs the effects produced upon her by 
the Green Mountain range in Vermont, the home of her 
childhood. Going out upon the hills surrounding the 
orchard overlooking the undulating heights, she would 
throw herself upon the ground and weep from pure inten- 
sity of emotion. At this period of my life I did not 
think it possible so great a boon would be granted me as 
to ever behold the subjects of my ardent dreams, in which 
I had felt 


“ The inward groan 
To sit upon the Alps as on a throne. 


When at last I was permitted by a gracious Providence to 
realize this life-dream, there was no alloy to lessen my 
happiness. 

The Rhine has so many features in common with the 
Hudson, that it fell short of my anticipations, although it 
grew upon me with prolonged acquaintance. Naples is a 
paradise, but a paradise where the serpent’s trail is ever 
visible. Rome is a queen, but a fallen one, paralyzed, and 
her beauty the hectic flush of disease. Yet the Alj^s, older 
than man, are ever young, capped with eternal snows, 
and their feet bathed in azure lakes, which reflect the 
fruits and flowers of the tropics ; so far beyond all other 
works of Nature that the human mind can never fully 
grasp them. We only know that they are the seals God 


228 


THE SWISS WASHINGTON. 


has stamped upon our beautiful world that He reigns. 

The Alps must be seen to be known. The most cun- 
ning skill of the painter cannot reproduce them, for their 
primal beauty consists in their bewildering and constantly 
varying tints, shadows and colors, as difficult to place on 
canvas as the diaphanous iris of the rainbow. I was 
charmed with the life and landscapes of Paul Potter and 
Cuyp in the galleries of Germany and Holland, their low 
horizons and broad expanses of field and meadow, but 
have seen no painting of Alpine scenery that satisfies me ; 
the faint rose blush of the snow-crowned heights, the hazy 
purple of the valleys and the green of the glaciers (the 
“sad green” of the aesthetics) must be. the despair of the 
artist. 

I was told of the works of M. Loppe, a Genevese 
painter, and of Calarne, who have succeeded in depicting 
the boldest views of Switzerland in a more satisfactory 
manner than any of their contemporaries ; but I had no 
opportunity to see them, and was quite content in the pos- 
session of the originals. I would not be considered as 
undertaking to depreciate the genius of those men who have 
filled Europe with so many thousand objects of beauty, 
but Mont Blanc, Jungfrau and the Matterhorn can no more 
be pressed into three square feet of canvas than the 
imagery of a Homer or Shakespeare can enter into the 
brain of an infant. 

The first glimpse of one of the isolated peaks, as of Mont 
Blanc at Geneva, is the event of a life, and prepares you 
for the greater event when you reach an altitude from 
which you behold them in vast processions, stretching out 
their hands to lift you up to those spheres where all is 
pure and holy. 

It would exceed the limits to which I must confine these 
descriptions to record all my observations among these 
mountains. Here I would add that it was while in Switz- 
erland that I experienced the disadvantages of travelling 


SWISS HONEY. 


229 


"w ith so large a party, not from lack of congenial compan- 
ionship so much as that there are localities where you 
would desire to prolong your stay, but which is limited to 
to the pre-arranged time. I did not take the Alps by 
assault, but by gradual approach, as was fitting in appear- 
ing before such august presence. 

Our approach to Bern was from Fribourg, through a 
country that did not much impress me until we were 
within a few miles of this old city, the present capital of 
Switzerland. The Swiss architecture and manner of life 
is seen to better advantage in the environs of Bern than 
any other portion of the land, and there are few localities 
in Europe where a New Englander or a citizen of the 
Middle States would feel more at home. I was often re- 
minded here of the Connecticut and Mohawk valleys ; the 
long stretches of green meadows through which the Aar 
winds like a white and blue satin ribbon ; hamlets and 
church spires peeping out from a mass of emerald foliage. 
A closer inspection, however, destroys all comparison — 
the low, over-reaching roofs, like toadstools, the multi- 
plicity of ornate galleries and balconies of the houses of 
the well-to-do, and the nondescript domiciles of the poorer 
class, where it is impossible to tell where the cottage 
terminates and the cowshed commences. Thrifty holly- 
hocks surround many of these Swiss chalets, oftentimes in 
front of a row of bee-hives, where the occupants had only 
to fly two or three feet for their breakfast. 

The honey of Switzerland is delicious, and is esteemed 
one of the greatest luxuries ; the bees are more domesti- 
cated than ours, and enter the houses with as little cere- 
mony as Yankee flies. The natives have a pretty custom 
of decorating with flowers the first hive that swarms. I 
could not help wondering if they practised that senseless 
custom, common with us at such times, of following the 
swarm with a tattoo upon kettles and pans. 

Bern is finely situated upon a plateau bounded on three 


230 


THE SWISS WASHINGTON. 


sides by the Aar. Its name is derived from the word in 
German signifying bear, Baren, from a tradition that the 
site was once a favorite haunt of the animal; other 
authorities ascribe it to a certain Glado May having 
brought two bears as trophies from the battle of Novara, 
1510. While the Bern Valley is not Alpine more than 
that it commands a noble range of the .Bernese Heights, 
it is in every respect satisfying to the tourist, and a whole 
summer spent in the vicinity would be none too long to 
enrich one’s knowledge of Switzerland’s Government. 
Bern is admirably built; no American populous centre 
but might acquire here some excellent ideas of municipal 
government. Without carrying neatness to the prim 
excess of the Broeck folk, near Amsterdam, the Bernese 
have the happy faculty of keeping all about them in order 
and cleanliness without showing the modus operand i; 
the principle was well illustrated by a remark once made 
to a lady by her guest. “ I have been with you three 
weeks ; your house is immaculate, yet I have never seen 
a broom.” 

The main street is slightly concave, and a branch of the 
Aar flows through the gutters, washing away all impuri- 
ties rapidly as they are formed. The terrace in front of 
the Cathedral is an elegant promenade, shaded by luxuri- 
ant chestnut trees, and provided with seats from which 
excellent opportunity is afforded of studying the novel 
and quaint life of the town. The south end of the plateau 
terminates abruptly, a parapet more than twice the eleva- 
tion of the Brooklyn Heights at Wall street ferry. A 
marble slab here records a singular accident ; a student, in 
1654, returning from a festive gathering, probably with an 
exhilaration of spirits which resulted from indulgence 
Mrs. Hayes wisely withheld from her guests, was thrown 
from his horse over the precipice to the lower town, more 
than a hundred feet below. The tablet records his won- 
derful preservation, and that he survived thirty years as 


STREET LIFE. 


231 


a preacher. lie certainly should have been able to dis- 
course eloquently from the text — “Take heed, lest ye 
fall. ” If all the accidents of college life could terminate 
so happily, there would not be as much cause to regret their 
frequency. The census of March, 1850, gives the popu- 
lation of the city as ‘27,475. Eighty-seven years before 
the discovery of our Continent by Columbus, Bern was 
visited by a conflagration which completely destroyed it, 
with all the valuable historic archives ; and that it was no 
inconsiderable town in 1405, we learn from the fact that 
fifteen hundred and fifty houses were burnt. It appears 
the neighboring towns were as prompt in aiding the afflicted 
inhabitants as those of our own land after the Chicago 
fire. The citizens of Solothurn sent half a million brick 
and tore down a portion of their own walls to help rebuild 
Bern; and Fribourg d^atched a procession of carts and 
laborers. 

The street life is exceedingly picturesque, to which the 
peculiar architecture, the broad, receding buttresses of 
the buildings add a harmony. There are numberless 
fountains of unique designs, objects of beauty as well as 
utility. The Ogre fountain interested me most. It com- 
memorates, in a vague way, the murder of a boy by a 
Jew ; on the summit of a pillar stands an ogre, his belt 
stuffed with struggling children; one of the little inno- 
cents lie is about to devour. Around this fountain you 
often see the peasants who have come in from the country 
for a holiday; robust youths in tight knee-breeches and 
gay hose, which set off to advantage their well-rounded 
limbs, a rustic nosegay fastened to their hats or on the 
breast. The girls are in short skirts of blue or red 
wmollen, sometimes over a longer one of white; their 
black bodices are worn over a white chemise, which has 
wide sleeves, nearly of the amplitude of those we know as 
the “ leg of-mutton sleeve ; ” their luxuriant hair hangs 
down their backs in long braids, while that of the married 


232 


THE SWISS WASHINGTON. 


women is carefully tucked under close-fitting caps. The 
girls’ nosegays of pinks and rosemary remind me of poor 
Ophelia. The sidewalks are under cover along the prin- 
cipal street, which must he a great convenience in had 
weather. Some of our party, however, preferred the sun- 
shine, and took the middle of the street for their prome- 
nade, where they were also free from the hustle of the 
crowd under the arcades. The most popular hotel is 
the Bellevue, which has a pretty garden provided with 
tables, where you are served with Swiss dainties while the 
eye is regaled with the range of the Bernese Alps, with 
Mont Blanc, resplendent in its gleaming tiara, towering 
above all other peaks. 

If Queen Victoria were as partial to bears as her remote 
predecessor, Queen Bess, she would no doubt honor Bern 
with a prolonged visit. What the stork is to the Stras- 
burger, and the pigeon to the Venetian, the bears are to 
the citizens of Bern. There is less sentiment in the Irish- 
man’s love for his pig, the Swiss peasant’s care for his. 
goat, or the Bedouin for his mare, for these are animals 
that contribute to the wealth and prosperity of their 
owners ; but the almost canonization of the bear at Bern 
is founded upon downright veneration. The Biblical story 
of the bald head and the bears would lose its terror with 
the children of this city, whose earliest play-toys are made 
in the image of the bear, and which is emblazoned on the 
arms of the municipality. As we stood watching the 
cathedral clock, the hour was struck, and out came a 
series of mechanical figures, followed by a procession of 
bears. At the Museum you find bears in all eras of life, 
from bear babies of a few months to bears in extreme age. 
Could the Aar boast its poet, as the Avon its Swan, we 
should doubtless have a noble epic on “ The Seven Ages 
of the Bear.” The toy shops are half filled with objects 
after the favorite model, bear soldiers, bear kings, bear 
clowns, and so on, ad infinitum. The quaintest group is 


BEAR SCHOOL. 


233 


that of a bear school, in which an old Bruin with rod and 
spectacles is schoolmaster, and whose motto, as has been 
wittily said, should be, “ Bear and for-bear.” At table 
your butter-knife has a bear handle, and the blade chips 
off the nose of a butter bear. Before you have half eaten 
your meat, Bruin’s eyes stare at you from the centre of 
the plate, and y<3u wonder if the steak before you is 
bovine or ursine. Think of our sister city of Buffalo 
making similar use of the monarch of the prairie, which 
makes such a noble figure in the American group of the 
Albert Memorial; or Rome of the wolf. By the way, 
Little Red Riding-Hood’s enemy does not have the 
esteem in this region bestowed upon the bear. In the 
vicinity is a wolf-club, to which none are eligible but 
those who can prove they have killed three wolves. 

Many of the Bernese customs assimilate to those of the 
Germans, and the children in their skull-caps, round faces 
and bodies as broad as long, bring to mind those of 
Rhine villages we had previously seen. These are often 
of the pure German blonde type, and which Bayard 
Taylor noticed in Spain. The groups around cottages in 
the Bern environs are the embodiment of the picturesque; 
all nature, animate and inanimate, appears to be uncon- 
sciously posing for the painter. The peasants are more 
clumsy than those of Naples, but less offensive in their 
habits. Here is an afternoon group at a vine-wreathed 
porch — two old women knitting or weaving lace, a 
younger robust matron near, nursing her babe, all the 
vdiile watching two calves who are having their supper, 
while the four-footed mother stands methodically chewdng 
her cud, the very picture of content. There was such a 
spirit of repose and domestic peace about the scene that 
a Paul-Pryish feeling came over me to penetrate the inte- 
rior of the chalet and take tea with the old women ; as 
for the calves, but for their black and gray spots, they 
might have been transferred from my own farm on the 


234 


THE SWISS WASHINGTON. 


banks of Lake Ontario, and I found myself almost uncon- 
sciously looking for the old gobbler who used to amuse 
the children so much by usurping the maternal duties of 
the hen in looking after the young turks. The architec- 
ture of the more pretentious dwellings in the environs is 
really elegant, and only the painter or engraver could 
adequately reproduce it. Biblical texts are often painted 
along the balconies, which give almost a Puritan effect in 
sentiment. One has this inscribed : “ By the help of 

God, in whom is my trust, I have erected this for my 
habitation, and commend the same to his gracious protec- 
tion. — 1781.” This inscription, made almost in the very 
year in which our beloved land became a free and inde- 
pendent nation, leads us to wish that the same words were 
written in letters of light upon the walls of both Houses of 
Congress, to typify a nation’s faith and reliance in Him 
who alone has power to save. 

The cheese of the Oberland is far superior to that of 
the Rhine villages, where the less agreeable it is to Ameri- 
can tastes the more it is esteemed by the natives ; and I 
do not think there is any condition short of positive putre- 
faction, but that this article of diet is palatable to the 
Germans. The best I saw was at Fribourg, colored a 
faintish blue from meliote flowers, and free from the 
somewhat pungent flavor of the goat cheese. The bread 
here is not so nice as that coming from Yankee ovens ; it 
is baked in long loaves, from two to three feet in length. 
In the high Alps the bread is dried and stored, so that 
often there are but two bakings a year; from what we 
learn of the customs of the herdsmen’s families, it is prob- 
able that the family washing is also semi-annual. To this 
negligence, combined with the use of snow-water as a 
beverage, is due some of the predisposing causes of the 
goitre which prevails in many of the mountain districts 
we visited. Much of our poetic conceptions of interior 
life of the mountain chalets would no doubt be rudely dis- 


PEASANT CHILDREN. 


235 


pelled on a close acquaintance. The instances of this 
deformity and cretinism were not so numerous as we had 
been led to expect, yet sufficient to cause regret that in 
such a beautiful land humanity, especially my own sex, 
should be subjected to such unsightly disease. A better 
understanding of the laws of physiology would undoubt- 
edly obviate the prevalence of cretinism. 

But revenons d nos moutons , for certainly children and 
babies are lambs. So far as my observation went, the 
children of the Bernese Oberland are well cared for ; half- 
grown girls were often seen lugging babies weighty and 
rotund as butter-tubs. Pedlers, with packs as gay as 
Autolycus’s basket of gewgaws and ribbons, were passed 
by the roadside, with a cluster of girls inspecting the 
wares ; and no doubt many of the pennies we gave them 
for their baskets of strawberries found their way into the 
tills of these peripatetic tradesmen. Often two or three 
chubby faces would appear in the rustic window frame, 
peering out with childish curiosity to us inhabitants of — 
to them — an almost mythical land. We could fancy 
that the short-skirted parent was just in the rear, exclaim- 
ing, as is often heard in the country districts of New 
England, “ Stand back, and let your mother see ! ” Ameri- 
can money, or its equivalent, is much better understood 
on the Continent than American character. These simple 
peasant folk have an idea that we live in palaces, to 
which treasuries are attached, brimful of gold and silver ; 
and I think the children who beset us and importune for 
money in various ways, are reared in this belief. 

With a glance at the peasant mother cutting bread for 
her children on the porch, where a long array of milk-pans 
is seen, but who is less ideally charming than Charlotte, 
whose similar act was so fascinating to Werther, we take 
leave of the Bern Valley and its pleasant memories. 


WAYSIDE REMINISCENCES. 


HT'HE railway station at which we take our departure 
-*• from Bern is a handsome one, with that air of sub- 
stantial prosperity which characterizes the city. The 
bridge over the Aar crossed, within an hour we are at 
Thun, whose streets bear much resemblance to those we 
have just left. Transferred now to a boat on Lake Thun, 
we have a delightful sail for Interlachen. The lake two- 
and-a-half miles wide, ten only in length, is in the highest 
degree picturesque, and consoles us for the loss of Mag- 
giore, which was passed at night. The northwest end is 
the seat of elegant villas and picturesque cottages, which 
rise above the most charming grounds in the same man- 
ner as along Highland avenue at Yonkers, and on the 
north shore of Staten Island. Now and then the turrets 
of an ancient castle tower over the modern structures, built 
on high slopes covered with luxuriant vines. Quaint 
hamlets and villages are rapidly passed, half buried in 
dense verdure ; while in the background the snow of Juno'- 
frau, the Maiden Mountain Queen, with her attendant 
vestal guard, the Moncli, the Eigher, the Schreckhorn and 
Wetterhorn, form a bold contrast to the sylvan loveliness 
of the lake shores. I dare not linger at this time around 
Interlachen, or I shall never reach the Rigi, to which I 
wish to carry the reader. The queer little cars of the 
Bodeli Railway take us over the isthmus between the 
lakes of Thun and Brienz, which, no doubt, were formerly 
one, and are both only an enlargement of the Aar river. 
Much of the fertile slopes around us has been brought 

236 


INTERLACHEN. 


237 


down by the glaciers from the Wetterhorn and the Jung- 
frau ; a hundred rivulets flowing down the mountain steeps 
have deposited the earth upon which Interlachen is built. 
I know not how Damascus looked to Mahomet when he 
beheld it from the Syrian mountains and refused to enter 
its walls, as it was forbidden man to enjoy but one para- 
dise, and he wanted not his on earth ; it could not have 
been more paradisiacal than the environs of Interlachen 
where the monks early founded a monastery (what good 
judges of beauty these ascetics were !) and gave it the 
name which signifies “ between the lakes ”. The cars are 
two-storied, much like those on the tramways of London 
and Paris, save that the upper seats are sheltered by a 
roof, while a wire guard protects us from falling out. The 
similarity of the little parks fronting the Interlachen 
hotels and pensions, which are bewilderingly numerous, 
were the cause of ludicrous mistakes with our party. 
Returning in the evening from a little shopping excursion 
I entered two hotels under the impression they were my 
legitimate quarters. This was not so disagreeable, how- 
ever, as a former experience in Switzerland, where I lost 
my temporary home at midnight, and was in nearly as bad 
plight as those ladies at the Philadelphia Exposition, who 
arrived on “New York’s Day,” and were compelled to 
ride to and fro all night in the horse cars in lieu of better 
lodging. The temperature here night and day was per- 
fect ; and almost prostrated as we had been with the heat 
in Italy, the Bern and Interlachen air was like a bracing 
tonic to an invalid. I here felt like deserting the party 
and making a visit to the Aar glaciers upon my own re- 
sponsibility. Although I was not a child when I read of 
Agassiz and his fellow savans living a week at a time in a 
cabin on one of these glaciers, my imagination was so 
excited with the narrative the effect is not wholly dis- 
j)elled ; but we excursionists are like sheep, and where the 
leader goes the rest must follow. 


238 


WAYSIDE liEMINISCEN CES. 


All eyes are now turned toward Jungfrau. They call 
her Maiden, but she is something more than that when 
her head is not turned by such constant and flattering 
attentions from hundreds of thousands of annual visitors 
to Interlachen. Of all the mountains I saw, Jungfrau is 
the one I most love. The Matterhorn I can admire, but 
its hands are stained too deep with the blood of those 
who sought to conquer it, to elicit our love. The terrible 
narrative of Whymper must appall the stoutest heart, yet 
every year there are those who seek to ascend that awful 
height and crawl over those almost bottomless chasms. 
Hazardous as this is, we can have sympathy with the 
enthusiasm and pride of the Alpine Club members, for 
there is an irresistible fascination in these heights, buried 
from one to two hundred feet in eternal snows. Women 
may vote and legislate, but I think they will never subdue 
the higher Alps, although they may go beyond the limits 
at which they now halt. Maria de la Mont Blanc, a high- 
spirited woman of the region, is the only one of whom I 
have knowledge who has ascended Mont Blanc. 

We made an early morning excursion to Staubbach 
Falls in carriages, there being indications of a fair day. 
Our road wound through a calm valley with verdant 
slopes, over which fell silver cascades, Jungfrau in front. 
Here and there are booths by the roadside, where women 
sit knitting and weaving lace, reminding us of the line in 
“ Twelfth Night ” — 

“ The spinsters and knitters sitting in the sun.” 

They have also for sale to the passing tourists the various 
articles of Swiss carved work made during the winter 
months. It was estimated that the summer visitors of 
1877 to New Hampshire left three million dollars in the 
State. Who could estimate the amount annually left by 
the people of all nations in and about Interlachen, not 
only the playground of Europe, but of the world? What 


A 


BEAUTIFUL WATERFALL. 


239 


a waterfall would be the Staubbach had it the volume of 
Niagara! It is a slender stream, the highest waterfall of 
Europe, nine hundred and eighty feet ; before it has left a 
dozen rods from the point of the plunge its volume is 
broken into spray and it continues its downward course 
almost noiseless, — waving, pulsating and swaying in re- 
sponse to the lightest movement of the wind, like a bridal 
veil of silver tissue, and again often resembling an 
immense white plume held downward, or the graceful tail 
of a horse of immaculate whiteness. Those who doubted 
the signs of fair weather before starting, are now pluming 
themselves on their sagacity, for as if the mist of the 
Staubbach was not damp enough, the clouds have begun 
to discharge their moisture. Alas, for woman’s enthusi- 
asm and courage ! Not only myself, but all our party 
but two are dissuaded by the rain from visiting the glacier 
ice caves ; as the trip was to be made on mules, I could 
not think of making a spectacle of myself over the rugged 
ascent in a driving storm. There was an instant stam- 
pede for the shelter of the hotel, where even standing 
room was eagerly seized. Such a dripping, steaming, 
moist crowd is seldom seen. Two wretched hours were 
thus passed until the return of the glacier duo. An 
onslaught is made on the larder, which was entirely inad- 
equate to supply so large a party, and I regret to say that 
the instinct for self was unpleasantly prominent on this 
occasion. Some had the faculty of obtaining an abund- 
ance, while they saw hungry ladies totally unsupplied. 
Heedless of the rain, I crossed over the way to a cafe or 
bakesliop, and there procured a cup of tea, a roll and cake. 
Had it not been that we were momentarily expecting the 
return of the absent ones, I believe I should have bar- 
gained for the privilege to stand before the baker’s fire and 
revolve slowly to dry my soaked garments ; I was not so 
wretched but I could smile at the picture of myself envel- 
oped in the ascending mist. At last the mule riders are 


240 


WAYSIDE REMINISCENCES. 


back, and we all enter the carriages for the return, the 
rain all the while beating pitilessly in ; the well-meaning 
but ineffectual attempts of the drivers to keep out the 
storm only add to our misery, and in this cheerless state 
we are finally landed at the Interlachen railway station. 
Too early for the train, there is nothing to do but wait in 
a barn-like depot, only enclosed on three sides, and which 
could shelter but a portion of the party, the less fortunate 
standing in the rain. At this moment it was impossible 
to help thinking with envy of friends far away in the 
Empire State and New England, so comfortable in their 
cosey parlors and libraries. 

Finally, the cars take us over the Bodeli to Bonigen, 
Lake Brienz, where we took steamer for Giessbach. Brienz 
is a gem of a little lake, with Giessbach situated at the 
upper end, opposite* the town of Brienz. The hotel at 
the falls is really magnificent, commensurate with the 
travel ; ninety thousand persons visited these cascades in 
the year of the last Paris Exposition. The view from the 
hotel site is exquisite, looking over the lake to Interlachen, 
with imposing peaks closing in the scene on every side. It 
would be folly to attempt a description of the Giessbach 
cascades, falling nearly sixteen hundred feet, after they 
have been so inimitably described by the late Dr. Bellows 
in his “Old World in its New Face,” and I shall content 
myself with a bare recital of the spectacle afforded by the 
illumination by colored lights. At the evening signal, the 
firing of a rocket, the cascades are successively illuminated 
by intense fires, which produce an effect so unreal, so daz- 
zlingly beautiful, that it seems more a bewildering trans- 
formation scene in a spectacular pageant than a reality. 
It is as if a million caskets of rubies, pearls and diamonds 
were tumbling over the far-reaching rocks, and I could 
only think of the terse expression of an art critic applied 
to Turner’s “ Slave Ship,” a rainbow shivered by lightning.” 

The ascent to the hotel is made up an inclined plane in 


241 


A NATURAL OBSERVATORY. 

cars drawn by hydraulic power. We spent the night here, 
surrounded with the mists from those exquisite falls ; I felt 
as if I was reposing in the very Boudoir of Nature. A 
short trip the next morning takes us across the lake to 
Brienz, thence to Brieg, where we took carriages to 
transport us over the Grand Brunig Pass, one of the 
passes of the Lower Alps. The ride is full of interest. 
Young girls run after us with strawberries and raspberries 
prettily arranged in baskets. They climb upon the steps 
o the carriage, heedless of the danger, and in earnest 
gesticulations and speech importune us to buy their fra- 
grant wares We had much difficulty in understanding 
them, and the drivers were as unaccommodating as 
possible, hurrying their horses forward, so that we were 
uncertain if 1<he poor girls found the pennies we threw to 
them. The fruit was excellent, but the strawberries have 
an unpleasant acidity unless eaten shortly after picking. 
Leaving the carriages at Alpnach we took steamer for 
Lucerne, a sail of a dozen miles over the lake of the 
same name. 

Of about the same height as Mount Washington, the 
Rigi can scarcely be called a mountain in this land of 
mountains. It derives its celebrity from its isolation from 
other heights, and the unrivalled view and sunrise from 
its summit, the Rigi-Kulm. No natural observatory in 
the world can compare with it. Its popularity is modern ; 
so late as 181 6 it had only been visited by the herdsmen ; 
it was not until 1856 that the principal of the eight hotels 
on the mountain was completed. Two thousand visitors 
stay over night at these hotels from May to the middle of 
October to enjoy the sunrise, which is the most noted 
natural spectacle of Europe next to Vesuvius, and infi- 
nitely more sublime than any the mind of man can con- 
ceive. The two railways on each side of the mountain 
are triumphs of engineering skill, modelled after that of 
Mount Washington. Had time permitted I should have 


242 


WAYSIDE HEM IN IS CEN CES. 


preferred going up by the foot-paths, not only as affording 
longer time to enjoy the constant unfolding of new views, 
but to study more thoroughly the topography of the region ; 
it is probable, however, that had I made the ascent in any 
other than the orthodox manner, via the railway, I should 
have been looked upon as a person of disordered intellect. 
Before we take our seat in the car, let us glance at the 
railway on the other side of the mountain, the starting 
point of which is Arth, a pretty hamlet on Lake Zug ; in 
going up by this route you pass over the buried town of 
Goldau, hundreds of feet under the site of the pres- 
ent village of Goldau. This town was swallowed up in 
the awful avalanche from the Rossberg mountain in 
1806, one of the most frightful calamities on record. 
It was not a snow avalanche but a section of the solid 
mountain which fell, covering three square leagues of 
the valley with debris ; imagine three miles of the Pali- 
sades opposite Yonkers, a quarter of a mile in height and 
thickness, falling from the Catskills into the peaceful 
valleys below. The bell of the Goldau church was all 
that was ever recovered, and now hangs in the tower of 
the present church, its plaintive tones ever recalling to the 
inhabitants the awful fatality. When I think of that 
buried town, which will never be exhumed, I realized 
more vividly the destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum 
than I did when standing in the streets of Pompeii. My 
imagination was continually haunted with the thought of 
those four hundred and fifty inhabitants of little Goldau, 
who lie in the deepest grave known to man. 

The Yitznau line, by which we ascend, is the oldest, 
begun in 1869 and completed at the Kulm in 1873 ; it 
crosses the north side of the Rigi, meeting the Arth-line 
from the opposite side. It caused some quizzical looks 
from the engine driver to see a woman taking a close sur- 
vey of the mechanism of the odd locomotive which is soon 
to draw us about five thousand feet above our present 


THE START UP THE RIG I. 


243 


level ; but never having been accustomed to such travel, I 
claimed the privilege to know the nature of the motive 
power that was to have in charge our precious bodies. 
In the centre of the track is a broad rack-rail in which the 
cog-wheel of the engine works; as near as I could esti- 
mate by my eye, the circumference of this wheel is about 
ten feet, with thirty-three teeth, each three and a half 
inches deep. Satisfied that all proper precautions 
against accident are made, we embark in the car, which 
is in front of the engine, the reverse of ordinary cus- 
toms. An excellent idea of the incline may be had by 
drawing a line from the door-sill of a room sixteen feet 
deep to a mark on the opposite wall four feet from the 
floor — that is, the rise is one foot to every four. 

No sooner have you left Yitznau for the climb than you 
behold the frowning sides of the Dossen overhanging the 
track. One of the foot-paths is seen by occasional glimp- 
ses at the right. As you continue to rise, delightful vistas 
come into view — deep valleys of the richest verdure, and 
fields gay with the variegated tints of wild flowers. If 
the painter cannot grasp the Higher Alps, he finds the 
valleys of the Rigi a literal paradise, and the botanist may 
here be equally contend for on this mountain, thirty miles 
in circumference, are found eight hundred species of 
plants. The base of the southwest end is almost tropical ; 
figs and almonds ripen there in the open air, so nicely 
sheltered is it from the north winds. There you find the 
lovely Alpine forget-me-not, usually considered a souvenir 
of the highest peaks. The Alpen-rose is a species of the 
rhododendron, and is scarcely less lovely, but does not 
flourish when transplanted. It is a child of the mountain, 
and while it will unfold its delicate bloom amid snow and 
ice, it withers and shrinks at the rude touch of man. Up, 
up we go, only at the rate of three miles an hour, but all 
too fast to digest the wonders that unfold before us like 
the dissolving views of the stereo|)ticon. 


244 WAYSIDE REMINISCENCES. 

Here comes, dancing down a steep slope, a merry brook, 
over which a log is placed at a narrow pass for the peas- 
ant’s foot-bridge ; vistas of deep-shadowed vales, so pas- 
toral and idyllic that even the memory of them affords 
infinite delight, sleep in quiet beauty on the right and left; 
white rabbits scamper across the way, and are hid in the 
green bushes of mountain berries; picturesque chalets 
peep out at us here and there, with some of their red larch 
logs tinged with yellow lichen and moss. I can never 
forgive M. Taine for the loathsome things he has said of 
the^lichens and mosses ; to be sure, his observations were 
made in the Pyrenees, but they cannot differ so materially 
from their Alpine kindred as to deserve his severity. 

Some of the characteristics of the lower portions of the 
valleys remind us of the Scottish highlands, as in the 
Tyrol where Hans Andersen tells of a Scotchman being 
so homesick at the sight of the cattle and sound of the 
bells that he burst into tears. The Schwytz cattle we see 
on the Rigi are noble creatures of black and gray; the 
pasturage is quite equal to that of the overland around 
Bern. In the high Alpine villages the cows are sent to 
the pastures for the brief summer of two months, where 
they remain the entire season ; the departure is an occa- 
sion of public festivity; the finest cow is selected to lead 
the procession, and the rest of the herd follow in pairs, 
the leader’s horns decorated with gay ribbons and gar- 
lands; around her neck a large bell, which is later replaced 
by one similar to those attached to the common cattle. 

It is not unusual for an ambitious dame to attempt to 
usurp the lead, when a terrible battle ensues between the 
rival queens ; for there are queen cows as well as queen 
bees. The herdsmen tell of the same spirit cropping out 
in the pastures; a cow will rebel and attempt to form a 
herd of her own, a little cow clique, small, but select ; if 
not successful, she retires to a remote corner and sulkily 
chews her cud, or turns her back to her mates in calm 


ETIQUETTE IK COW-PASTURES. 


245 


disdain. This appears so human that it is as much a 
glimpse of life in fashionable salons as a chapter from 
natural history. Nothing can be more idyllic than to 
stand on some lofty Swiss height and listen to the tink- 
lings of the cow and goat bells as they float up to you 
from the green valleys. The cows are so much attached 
to these musical appendages that they are uneasy when 
removed. A story is told of one who lost her bell, who 
refused to eat, pined, and grew thin ; she was seen to fre- 
quent a particular spot, where, on search being made, the 
lost bell was found and restored to the happy animal who 
was soon in as fat condition as ever. 

Nearly the whole of the male population of these 
villages remain with the cows until their return ; they 
take up all the facilities for making butter and cheese, 
which represents the summer’s labor when they come 
back to their winter homes. The gathering of wild hay 
on the Rigi is an important industry, and one, poetic as it 
may appear to the tourist, attendant with great risks and 
toil. The curse of Adam has fallen heavily upon these 
men and women of the mountains ; the carts are dragged 
by hand up steep declivities, and the men climb to the 
heights beyond, bringing down the hay in sacks upon 
their shoulders; those who do not own carts carry their 
stores upon their backs from the summits to the villages, 
the most expert earning from three to four francs a day if 
they gather a hundredweight. 

Now and then you see a cottage whose walls are covered 
with small shingles, like the scales of fishes, much smaller 
than those used in a similar manner on very old buildings 
in our Eastern and Middle States ; I saw but two of con- 
crete or pebbled walls, neither of which was so perfect a 
specimen of that mode of building as may be seen on the 
road between Wolcott and Red Creek, in Wayne County, 
N. Y. By the side of the foot-path at our right is a chalet 
so near that with a glass we have a glimpse of the inte- 


210 WAYSIDE REMINISCENCES. 

rior, and on the porch can plainly see a boy, taking advan- 
tage, probably, of the absent maternal eye, drinking from 
a milk-pan — the very pan from which the next passing 
pedestrian will no doubt be regaled. 

Our engine and car have steadily kept on their way 
until we now halt at the first station, the Kaltbad (“ cold- 
bath ”), deriving its name from the elegant bath-house at 
the left, with broad veranda and roof of gay Dutch tiles. 
Before reaching this altitude, however, we have experi- 
enced a decided sensation when passing through the 
pudding-stone tunnel of the Dossen. On emerging from 
this, one’s heart almost leaps out of the mouth at sight of 
the Schurtobel Bridge which you are to cross, over a fear- 
ful chasm spanned by the frail-looking iron track sup- 
ported by wrought-iron pillars. It is said that the women 
formerly making the ascent of Mt. Tom, opposite North- 
ampton, Mass., were often so impressed with a sense of 
danger that they had an impulse to leap from the car, and 
that is why the whole way is now covered. I would advise 
all of similar inclinations to beware of the Rigi ascent, 
for a flying leap here would never be repeated. I am not 
writing this that my friends, like Desdemona, may love 
me for the dangers I have passed ; but there were few of 
us who did not listen with secret satisfaction to the reit- 
erated assurances of safety. It is more appalling to look 
back upon the sharp-falling track we have passed than 
ahead to that we have yet to climb ; some of our ladies 
intimate terrible hints of elevators in famous dry-goods 
palaces that have fallen and where the occupants have been 
terribly shaken, but the details kept secret from the press 
and public. They argue if accidents happen to the ele- 
vators they may to the Rigi Railway ; but our tough little 
engine hoots at the imputation and continues to take us to 
cloudland. We are now above the “Sword Forest ” and 
look down on an immense carpet of foliage where not a 
limb is to be seen ; deciduous trees are below us, the hr 


A PLEA FOR PILATE. 


247 


and pine above. From here we have a fine view of Mt. 
Pilatus. When w T e subsequently saw it from. Lucerne, it 
had the appearance of Mt. Ascutney, as seen in the Con- 
necticut Valley; but from this point it is much bolder. 
No two mountains, in such continuity as Pilatus and the 
Rigi, could be more unlike, unless it be Gerizim and Ebal, 
the mounts of blessing and cursing, in Palestine, as 
described in Deuteronomy. If there is a curse on Pila- 
tus from its having been the alleged residence of Pontius 
Pilate, to which to trace its bleak and frowning aspect, 
there is certainly a blessing on Regina Montium, Rigi, the 
“ Queen of Mountains. ” The legend tells that Pilate, 
after a wretched existence here, filled with remorse and 
despair, flung himself into the lake, which caused fearful 
storms to fall upon the city ol Lucerne. The wise magis- 
trates of that city made it a heavy penalty for any to 
pass over the lake or ascend the mountain. But the 
mantle of Luther had touched a minister of Lucerne. 
Gathering a band of followers, he sallied out in the year 
1585 to exorcise the evil spirit ; they rowed their boat 
upon the lake, and boldly called upon Pilate to do his 
worst, throwing stones into the water at each appeal. If 
there was any doubting Thomas in that little craft, how 
his heart must have quaked with fear at the temerity of 
his fellows ! But the waters retained their placidity, and 
the evil spirit was dethroned. It is said, and probably 
with some truth, there are simple folk who yet believe in 
the power of Pilate, and see his dread shadow hovering 
over the moonlit lake. Even greater minds are not free 
fromr latent superstition. Miss Sedgwick, Avhom in our 
youth we looked upon as representing the best culture of 
the day, confessed that it made considerable difference to 
her whether she saw the new moon first over her right 
shoulder instead of her left. Now, while I would be the 
last to defend any enemy of our Lord, in j ustice to poor 
Pilate I am led to inquire if he deserves all the hate and 


248 


WAYSIDE REMINISCENCES. 


abuse of which he has so long been the recipient? In the 
miracle plays of the fourteenth century he was beaten 
with sticks and reviled by actors and spectators. It does 
not appear that he was anxious to condemn Christ, and 
his reluctant consent to the crucifixion was probably more 
in response to the wishes of the Jews than the dictates of 
his own impulses. He had less reason to wish the death 
of Christ than Elizabeth for Mary Stuart’s execution. 
His greatest culpability, next to his actual concern in the 
crucifixion, was his attempt to throw the responsibility 
upon Herod Antipas, in one of the charges against the 
Master. But here he was only following the nature of 
man ; Adam throws the responsibility upon Eve, and she 
upon the serpent. 

Clink, clink, clink, grind along the cogs, lifting us on ; 
yet not so loud but we hear the lowing of the cows and 
the tintinnabulations of their bells, as they come down 
the slopes in response to the herdsman’s call, for the even- 
ing shadows are already falling. If some of these cow 
shepherds would but sing the “ Ranz des Y aches, ” the 
herdsmen’s song to his flock, which in Napoleon’s army 
was forbidden to be played under pain of death ! But I 
believe it is now obsolete. It is told of the herdsmen of 
one of the other cantons that they still retain a version of 
this call, something of this character : 

“Ah, ah ! cows, come to the milking. 

Come one, great and small, 

Black and white, young and old, 

Under the oak where I milk you.” 

Is it not easy to imagine how these words, set to simple 
and minor strains, breathing the very spirit of their moun- 
tain homes, should cause the Swiss soldiers to fling away 
their arms and desert the ranks of the French conqueror? 
Writing of Napoleon reminds me that he is associated 
with Pilatus, before us, wdiich is now bathed in purple 


LOG-SHOOTS. 


249 


and gold, the mantle cast over it by the expiring sun. In 
1812, an enterprising man of Wiirtemberg built a slide on 
Pilatus to send down the valuable timber cut upon the 
snmmit. It was eight miles long, and thirty thousand 
logs were used in its construction ; a log one hundred feet 
long would make the descent in three minutes.. Napoleon 
contracted for all the timber ; it was floated in rafts from 
the lake to the Reuss, thence to the Aar and into the 
Rhine, at last reaching the German Ocean, a thousand 
miles from its starting point. This slide was destroyed 
in 1819. The last timber that came down was used in 
building the present church of Goldau. A similar one on 
a less scale was subsequently built in the Green Moun- 
tains, near Peru, Yt. 

Our weather prophets are now scanning Pilatus for signs 
of what the morning may be ; for the reader will bear in 
mind that this ascent is to see the sunrise, and Pilatus is 
as good barometer as the little old man and woman on 
our Yankee kitchen mantels. When Pilatus has his cap 
on (cloud) a wet day follows, but if he wears his sword 
(if the summit is visible) a fair day may be counted. It 
is, perhaps, in acknowledgment of our having said a good 
word for old Pilate that his mountain smiles upon us 
this evening and seems to promise a clear morning. But 
in this region of clouds there is no safety in calculations, 
and some of the visitors’ books plaintively record the dis- 
appointment of thousands : 

“ Seven weary up-hill miles we sped, 

The setting sun to see ; 

Sullen and grim he went to bed, 

Sullen and grim went we. 

Nine sleepless hours of night we passed, 

The rising sun to see ; 

Sullen and grim he rose again, 

Sullen and grim rose we.” 

Before it is too dark let me notice the natural rock-work 


250 


WAYSIDE REMINISCENCES. 


of the Rigi. If the gardeners of our American public 
parks could only study Nature here for a month we should 
be great gainers, even on the limited scale they would 
necessarily be obliged to build their imitations ; but then, 
where would they procure this endless variety of lichen, 
moss, parasitic vines and mountain shrubs ? Where are 
our enterprising photographers, who are exploring the 
whole globe in search of the unique, that they have not 
aimed their cameras at the Rigi rock-work ? 

We have now passed the junction connecting with the 
Arth line, and continue upward in the twilight. Air cold, 
and our warmest wraps are all too light ; the night wind 
begins to blow, and our teeth fairly chatter with the chill. 
The last station reached, we are doomed to a further 
ascent of our own volition, for a flight of stone steps must 
be mounted before reaching the hotel, by this time a 
much-longed-for haven of rest. Here we await our con- 
ductor to assign our rooms. We are then informed that 
the house is already full! Fortunately there is an annex 
farther up the Kulm, where we are finally accommodated. 
A hasty toilet, and we are ready for dinner, which at 
home we should term a late supper, for it was nearly nine 
before we rose from the table, where, we enjoyed the best 
dinner we had in Europe, admirably cooked and faultlessly 
served. The parlor was filled with a cosmopolitan crowd, 
many participating in the music and dancing ; but all of 
our party were too fatigued for such recreations. The 
people, however, were worthy of study; here were English 
tourists and others from Russia and all parts-of the Conti- 
nent, many with a worn, blase look, as if they were not 
enjoying the Alps, but only “ doing ” them. I would not 
care to judge of the English people without having seen 
more of them in their homes in their own land. I regret 
that they should so often be supercilious towards Ameri- 
cans, who are sprung from their own loins. An American 
Christian has to be fortified with a spirit of forbearance 


“ALONE WITH THE STARS ” 


251 


not to be annoyed at expressions and manners of our cousins 
of Albion. Some of their late writers have made much 
merriment over an alleged entry in a visitors’ book : “Mr. 

and Mrs. United States of America, the best and 

most prosperous country in the world. Arrived on mules 
from Chamouni. Pleased with the mountains.” 

Well, it is possible it is true. England does not monop- 
olize all that class of persons ; and no doubt some of ours 
of that character get on the Continent, as well as their 
kin from the Thames. 

There was not one of our party but was glad the day 
was ended ; the men really appeared more fatigued than 
the rest of us. With due deference to the many conceded 
superiorities of the stronger sex, it is certain that woman 
bears the fatigue of travel with less complaint and appar- 
ent ill effects; it is possible, however, that her prostration 
may be greater after the excitement has passed, and may 
demand a longer time for recuperation. 

At last I am in my room, with a prospect of a few 
hours of needed rest in store ; but not before I have over- 
hauled my notes, which are in a despairing condition, 
jotted down on London tramways, Parisian omnibuses, 
Rhine boats, Venetian gondolas, and railroad cars not 
always of the smoothest locomotion. My friends will, 
perhaps, have occasion to rejoice to be spared some of my 
observations, for these same notes, having survived the 
trip from Scotland to Pompeii, at last fell a prey to my 
own kitchen fire, through the thoughtlessness of my maid. 

My notes disposed of, I glance out of the window 
before retiring. My room was pleasant — a corner one 
overlooking the main hotel and the platform from which 
we are to see the sun rise on the morrow, if he is not 
“sullen and grim.” The house is so modern that we are 
spared the horrid wall paper of some of the older German 
hotels, with their figures of hobgoblins and nondescript 
creations. The beds are quite as good as those of the 


252 


WAYSIDE REMINISCENCES. 


average American watering places, and the puerile jest of 
the Englishmen, that his couch combined “bed and board,” 
would not apply to the Kulm, for in addition to the usual 
feather bed we have another for cover — a decided luxury 
this cold night. Although two thousand persons are 
gathered around us, all is now quiet; the dancers have 
retired; the parlor is dark, and but for a little evidence 
of stir in the working portion of the hotel, no sound 
comes to the ear. The stars are large and lustrous ; the 
atmosphere cold, but pure as crystal. A spirit of majestic 
repose hangs over the Kulm. The words of Carlyle, the 
master who has defined Heaven as Rest, and who has since 
entered it, comes to my mind : “ It is true sublimity to be 
here; I am alone with the stars.” I made no effort to 
trace out the mountains ; I do not like the Alps at night, 
when they have a corpse-like tint, the antipodes of their 
life and beauty in sunlight. 

The knowledge that I am resting on the highest eleva- 
tion I am ever likely to attain, above the highest railway 
station of the world, does not keep me awake, and I fall 
asleep with that sense of peace and security enjoyed as a 
child in “grandmother’s spare bed.” Aroused by the 
rude blast of the Alp-horn, I lay for some time dazed, 
with a half-defined consciousness of some promised great 
joy, but what, or even where I was, I could not decide; 
in these flying trips through Europe, where you go to 
sleep in Germany and awake in Italy, see the sun set at 
Rome and hail it the next morning at Genoa, your geog- 
raphy and organ of locality become sadly confused. But 
the reiterated blasts of the horn soon leave no doubt 
where we are now, and dark as it is I prepare for the 
coming spectacle. 

In my opinion the Alp-horn neither contributes to the 
sentiment or music of Switzerland ; far away among the 
crags, toned by distance, and dying away in mellowed 
echoes, it may be pleasant ; but here it recalls too forcibly 


HASTY TOILET. 


253 


that distressing din of the fog-horn of the Centennial 
summer at Philadelphia. Musical friends tell of the 
pretty effect of it in Meyerbeer’s opera of “Dinorah,” and 
it is certainly harmonious in the charming overture to 
Rossini’s “William Tell;” but all that cannot reconcile 
me to these Gabriels of the Rigi. It was between three 
and four when we were aroused ; the American excursion- 
ists of the preceding summer (1878) were less fortunate, 
for some mischievous party blew a false alarm an hour 
earlier. It would be difficult to name a place where so 
hasty toilettes are made as those early ones at the Kulm ; 
all deficiencies are expected to be hid by the blankets. I 
have a mind not to write a word of these blankets ; it is 
almost certain that the prohibition of their use is a strata- 
gem for publicity ; there is an innate impulse in man to 
do that which is forbid, and as every Rigi pilgrim is sure 
to use or write about the inevitable blanket, it is easy to 
estimate the amount of free-advertising they give the 
locality. . 

Out upon the platform they come, singly and in groups 
of ten, twenty, thirty, a sleepy, grim crowd of two thou- 
sand, some of the men with the “ drapery of their couch ” 
literally “ wrapped about them. ” I could not help fancy- 
ing what the spectacle would be were they the bed-quilts 
the girls in my younger days used to “piece up,” com- 
posed of a mosaic of the family calico samjfies used for a 
generation. Would it not have been a scene for Dore ? 
It would certainly afford color enough to satisfy the most 
ardent admirer of the Hispanio-Franco school. There is 
such an undefined expression in the countenances of 
many, that we conclude a sunrise from any point of view 
is a novelty ; it is not difficult to belieVe the story of the 
young lady at Rigi, who came out with her lighted candle 
to assist her in viewing the spectacle, and then looked in 
the west, for where should the sun rise save where she 
had seen it disappear the evening before ! 


254 


WAYSIDE REMINISCENCES. 


But soon the scene before us was too absorbing to take 
note of lesser things. Already indications are manifest in 
the east which mark the exact spot where the imperial 
visitor is to appear. A long line of golden light is pen- 
cilled along the horizon between the peaks, which momen- 
tarily lengthens and expands until it stretches half-way to 
the zenith. It was like a crescendo in Handel’s “ Crea- 
tion : ” 

“ The deep music of the rolling world, 

Kindling within the strings of the waved air.” 

Almost breathless with a sense of the coming sublimity, 
insensible to the winter air sweeping over the summer-clad 
expanse below, I kept my gaze fastened upon the east, 
with “no brain above the eyes.” Two requisites only are 
needed here — sight and soul. Six miles below us, 
almost vertically, lay the Zug, black and silent; on the 
right, the noble horns of the Bernese Oberland, with 
Jungfrau and the Wetterhorn bathed in the most delicate 
rose tint ever beheld; behind us, the mists are unveiling 
the lovely Lucerne, which lies like a mirror framed in 
emerald; new peaks and lakes appear as the light 
increases; and such light! almost tangible; it permeated 
us, and carried us to that primal day when the fiat went 
forth, “Let there be light !” How may the crimson gold 
of the eastern horizon be described? In art, the nearest 
resemblance is in Turner’s “Agrippina Landing with 
the Ashes of Germanicus,” in the London National 
Gallery. Now, it is fading into a pale rose, when, 
suddenly, there is seen a flash of intense fire, a ruby spot 
no larger than a star ; another moment, half a sphere of 
molten carbuncle; another, and the sun, a great throbbing 
globe, like an aerial ship casting off the last cable that 
binds it to earth, sails swiftly up the zenith. The Prome- 
thean torch flies from peak to peak along the Oberland 
range, a hundred and twenty miles, throwing over their 


SWITZERLAND IN EPITOME. 


255 


walls and towering heights of ice, delicate veils of rose. 

In vain I strive to write of these scenes in the “emo- 
tional style” necessary to please those who consider 
that if one is born with a soul, there is no offence greater 
than to confess it. They may pardon the ecstasy of an 
art critic over a canvas of Meissonier, the size of a man’s 
palm, but before the work of the Master of masters we 
must be as passionless as the statue of Marcus Aurelius 
overlooking Rome. Would that these pages exposed no 
greater transgression of the purist’s laws. Yet the time 
was, when I could look upon the descriptions of Swiss 
scenery by Dr. Cheever as probable exaggerations, doubt- 
ing that there could be on earth scenes so wonderful as to 
justify his glowing words. Now we know that for these 
there is no language, and that only the poets succeed in 
translating some of the emotions we are powerless to 
embody. At the best, perhaps none of us express more 
adequately than the man of whom Coleridge wrote: 
“ Some folks apply epithets as boys do in making Latin 
verses. When I first looked upon the Falls of the Clyde, 
I was unable to find a word to express my feelings. At 
last a man, a stranger to me, who arrived about the same 
time, said ‘How majestic!’ It was the precise term, 
and I turned round and was saying — ‘Thank you, sir, 
that is the exact word for it,’ when he added in the same 
breath, ‘ Yes, how ver y pretty I' ” 

Here and there are those of sketching proclivities who 
are making outlines of the peaks, probably more to sub- 
stantiate their stories at home of the spectacle than with 
any intent of reproducing the extraordinary effects of 
light and shade. In couples and groups the crowd steal 
away, leaving a few enthusiasts spellbound on the plat- 
form, while they either finish the interrupted nap or com- 
plete the morning toilettes. But for them we had no 
eyes, so intent are we upon viewing the lakes, of which 
you count twelve or fourteen, but too exquisite for 


256 


WAYSIDE REMINISCENCES. 


more than a i allusion — they cannot be described, no 
more than the peerless Jungfrau with her virgin snows, 
untrod by man until 1812 . 

We breakfasted with the chickens; at least, a proud, 

strutting sultan and his harem are audible as we discuss 
© 

the nicely-cooked members of their kindred, probably sent 
up from the farms around the Rigi. All the vocabulary 
of adjectives of admiration are exhausted as the morning 
wonders are recalled at the table, and die away in a 
knife-and-fork chorus lively enough to serve Verdi with a 
hint for a companion to his hammers and anvils. We are 
mortal, and appetites seem to be augmented rather than 
diminished by the soul feast of the early morning. I sup- 
pose it could be easily traced to a physiological law why 
men and women, after passing through some intense 
mental emotion, eat with abnormal zest; it is particularly 
noticeable in those primitive country districts of any land 
where it is the custom to invite remote friends to partake 
of “the funeral baked meats.” 

There is no chance for cavil at the Rigi-Kulm hotels; 
American enterprise could do no more than is done here 
for comfort. Two persons are left during the win- 
ter as custodians of the main hotel, and it would be 
interesting to know their observations. After breakfast 
I. went out to take a farewell of the Kulm view, than 
which the world can show no equal. The day had now 
advanced, and the whole prospect lay in intense light and 
deepest shade. But I must bring my observations on 
the Rigi to a close, else probably be termed mountain- 
mad ; in self-justification I can only say, “ Go and see for 
yourself. ” 

Our descent is over the railway, without steam, much 
faster than the up trip. A curious optical delusion is pro- 
duced by the level floor of the car while passing down 
these steep inclines. The trees, cottages and chalets 
appear to be ludicrously awry, as though blown forward 


DESCENT OF THE lUGT. 


257 


by a strong wind. We are yet so high that clouds are 
seen below us, for this region is the great cloud factory of 
Europe. The effect is indescribably charming to see a 
huge mass of vapor dissolve, revealing in its centre one of 
the lakes of blue or the top of a pine forest. Our party 
were in high spirits, and appeared quite different beings 
than when under the enervating sun of Naples. Some 
are searching out new objects in the wide-spread land and 
water view ; some re-perusing precious letters from home, 
fiom all parts of our broad Union; one young lady 
divides her time between a letter to her mother she is 
writing before the scene of her inspiration has faded and 
the half-spoken attentions of a gallant, which appear to 
be acceptable to the fair correspondent ; it is noticed, 
however, that on reaching the terminus the gentleman 
walks coolly off without so much as assisting his com- 
panion to descend from the car, utterly oblivious of all 
but self, but which was in perfect accord with his demeanor 
during the whole of the tour. Our countrymen are so 
justly famed at home for their polite treatment of ladies 
that such an instance of selfishness is noticeable for its 
infrequency. 

Thus terminated the most memorable morning of my 
life, a visit I had made in the spirit of George Eliot, who, 
we may hope, is now listening to the “great clear voices 

“ And I will get me to some far-off land, 

Where higher mountains under heaven stand, 

And touch the blue at rising of the stars 

Whose song they hear where no rough mingling mars 

The great clear voices.” 


PARIS. 


F France, per se , we saw little. However, as Paris 



w is France we have seen all that might be in three 
days. Rot the Paris of Francis I., of the Louises, of 
Napoleon I., or even of Napoleon III. ; for with the 
Empire vanished the gorgeous street pageantry which 
marked the last Bonaparte dynasty. What is better has 
survived, the wonderful topographical and architectural 
improvements that so much astonish us, which Baron 
Haussmann introduced. An all-night ride by rail from 
Lucerne to the capital on the Seine, left all eastern France 
a blank in our observations. The beams of a red morning 
sun that drifted through my chamber curtains (so high 
they seemed to fall from a balloon) woke me the follow- 
ing day, and I looked out over Paris. Something of the 
elation experienced on emerging from the Wiesbaden 
baths seized me ; the sun was the “ Sun of Austerlitz.” 

We arrived on Saturday morning. Do not accuse us 
of disloyalty to the principles of ’76 because we made our 
first objective point that abode of all others most identi- 
fied with royalty, Versailles. If there be blame, put it on 
our conductor, Mr. Crunden, who is so inured to fault- 
finding that I think it troubles him as much, no more, as 
the April shower bothers the duck in a pond. 

“To Versailles. before breakfast?” No, certainly not; 
no lion since Rigi can ternj^t us before breakfast, no matter 
how bravely he roars. 

Our breakfast was nice and delicate, almost elegant, but 
to some of us it was like feeding rose leaves to an ele- 


258 


A LIGHT BREAKFAST. 


259 


phant : a baby cup of coffee ; four pigmy lumps of sugar, 
square lumps, for no one article comes round very often at 
Continental tables ; two tiny eggs, a trifle larger than 
those I used to find in the robin nests of the front yards 
of my childhood homes (I thank you, Miss Jewett, for 
your good word for the old door-yards). You leave 
nothing unconsumed for “politeness,” and rise from the 
table feeling very much as the London aesthete is sup- 
posed to have felt after having dined upon a lily. 

Our journey to Versailles was of special interest, as it 
took us through the country north of the Seine which is 
now historic from having been the battle-ground between 
Fiance and Germany, and later the scene of the sanguin- 
ary conflict with the Commune. Not long after our 
departure from the hotel we pass over a splendid road 
making a wide sweep to the west of Paris ; the ground is 
elevated, and affords a noble view of the vast hive con- 
taining two millions of people. Two great landmarks rise 
above the endless maze— the Arch of Triumph and the 
Dome of the Invalides. 

Sevres we pass six miles from the great metropolis ; its 
porcelain and j^ottery would have had a special interest 
for myself and son had it been practicable to stop. The 
site of the town seemed pretty, lying in the valley between 
the hills of St. Cloud and Meudon, which witnessed the 
bombardment of the town in 1870 by the French to dis- 
lodge the German invaders. What wonderful recupera- 
tive powers has this nation, so quickly to outlive the out- 
ward evidence of that gigantic war ! We catch flashing 
glimpses of the Seine, which enters Paris pure as the 
streams that flow out of the virgin snow of the Alps, 
but is now loaded with the drainage of the interminable 
sewers around which Victor Hugo has thrown such 
a gloam of fascinating interest. How little we hear 
of this great river, the Rhine is such a monopolizer! 
Yet to the French no river is second to the Seine ; to 


260 


PARIS. 


the Parisian it is a pride ; he would bridge it with 
gold and malachite if he could ; no country villa is eligible 
unless its grounds border the beloved stream which 
flows past so many a legendary isle and castle tower. 

For three-quarters of a century have the citizens of our 
land made of Versailles a resort; those among them who 
have been alarmed at the growing luxury of life at Wash- 
ington ever after hold their peace. We are safe, at least 
in this direction. “ But the fountains ? ” 

Well, there they are — the “Crown” and the “Pyra- 
mids” — in front of the flower-gemmed terrace ; below, the 
“ Baths of Diana,” and beyond, the monarch of fountains 
itself, the “Basin of Neptune!” — not as you have seen 
it pictured, a forest of water columns ; it is easy for the 
engraver to set all these dragon mouths, tritons and shells 
to spouting; but to do the real thing would cost two 
thousand dollars for every twenty minutes of the display. 
We are shrewd visitors, who have seen Niagara, and 
who would grumble at an annual water-tax of twenty-five 
dollars ; we are not likely to pay one hundred dollars a 
minute to see the aqueous diamonds fall upon the back of 
Neptune and his seahorses; though it must be indeed a 
royal sight ! 

Can we ever get away from the walks, the grottoes, the 
Tapis Vert, the groves and emerald walls of verdure to 
be lost in the galleries of the palace beyond ? 

We wander on through the vast pile, from halls to 
saloons, from chambers to museums, past the masterpieces 
of David and Vernet. After all, there is no picture upon 
the walls so eloquent as that which rises at the call of the 
royal chamberlain on that day of 1778 — “The ambassa- 
dors of the thirteen united provinces.” Fill up for your- 
self the interval to these days, when the infant has merged 
into manhood so healthy that though the Nation’s head is 
laid low by the assassin, it weeps in sympathy, but never 
for a moment halts in its gigantic strides to power. 



The Flying Mercury. 





GLORIES OF VERSAILLES. 


201 


Other chroniclers spare me the enumeration of the 
varied glories of the interior of Versailles. All that two 
hundred years of taxation could purchase, that exquisite 
taste could suggest or luxurious fancy crave, is there. 
We saw the furniture, the mirrors, the beds, and even 
the state carriages, carved and painted in the extreme of 
art, which have been used by the renowned occupants 
since the heyday of the rule of Louis XIV. There is the 
bed upon which he died, hung with the drapery embroid- 
ered by Mme. de Maintenon. 

The Throne Room, in which a grand state ball was 
given in 1856, in honor of Victoria’s visit, appeared to be 
the ultimatum of magnificence ; yet when we reached the 
Gallery of Louis XIV., all beside was dwarfed. This is 
the grandest room in the world — nearly two hundred 
and fifty feet in length, forty-three in height and thirty- 
five in width. The walls are lined with admirably pro- 
portioned columns of red marble in the Corinthian order, 
between which are niches containing statues of Venus, 
Adonis, Mercury and Minerva, so peerless in execution 
that we look to see them step down from the alcoves 
where they are placed, although, in such case, so great are 
the prejudices of our training, we could wish they were 
more generously draped. 

Nothing touched me more than the peep into the room 
where Marie Antoinette lay sleeping on that dreadful 
night when the frenzied mob entered the palace bent upon 
havoc and death. 

From the 120,000 canvas of David’s “Coronation of 
Napoleon I.,” we turn to a room containing portraits of 
our own countrymen, — Clay, Webster, Jackson, Polk and 
others. For such Republicans, their equanimity seemed 
little disturbed by their royal surroundings. We marched 
the whole quarter-mile length of the ground floor of the 
palace ; a memorable march, for we were reviewed by all 
the Admirals and Marshals of France ; true Frenchmen, 


262 


PARIS. 


for they who had reviewed the glory of the Kingdom and 
Empire were polite enough not to turn up their noses at 
weary tourists. 

The theatre was dim, but there were streaks of Rem- 
brandtish light waking into life the pendants of chande- 
liers and gilded boxes by which one could judge of the 
magnificence when the auditorium is filled with a brilliant 
audience. The chapel is more elegant than ecclesiastical ; 
noble Corinthian columns extend from the floor to the 
exquisitely painted ceiling. The most unique engraving 
I have ever seen is one of this ceiling and these columns 
as they appear to a person prostrate on the floor, looking 
upward ; by a little exercise of the imagination it can be 
easily known what a curious study of perspective and 
foreshortening this engraving is. 

The paintings at Versailles which represent battles on 
sea and land, most of them in which France was engaged, 
number over one thousand. What an incalculable amount 
of human energy and genius expended by one nation on 
war! It almost put me out of conceit with the Cadet 

uniform of C . May our beloved land never battle in a 

cause less holy than those of 1776, 1812 and 1861 ! There 
are several paintings here celebrating the event at York- 
town in 1781, but more flattering to French national pride 
than our own. Number 439 represents Washington as a 
secondary personage on the occasion; number 441 is a 
copy of this, in water colors, by a Dutch artist ; number 
442 represents Rochambeau and Washington giving orders 
for the attack, painted by Couder, and in which an admir- 
able expression is given to the features of Washington. 
Some ingenious body has figured out that the paintings at 
Versailles, ranged in a single line, would extend for six- 
teen miles, as far as Yonkers on the Hudson from New 
York. 

Is not the reader glad to be spared all we saw and 
thought at Versailles? Are you vexed that I am yet sus- 


CLEAN STREETS. 


2 63 


ceptible ? I hear you, who are enamored with what you 
have seen at Florence, Rome and Genoa, exclaim against 
my yielding the palm to Versailles. Are the palaces of 
those cities, the galleries, the groves, the gardens and 
fountains, to go for naught, and thus add another smile of 
triumph to the shade of the Grand Monarch ? It may be. 
I feel that I have here reached the culmination of human 
so f ai * a s it can be embodied by finite hands. 

Exhausted, I withdraw from the crowd and rest upon 
a low seat beyond the Tapis Vert. For me the founder 
and his proud court return. I hear the echo of royal foot- 
steps, I see the gleam of the jewels of a noble throng. 

Vanished shades! No more incorporate than the air I 
breathe. Yet here stand in all their primal splendor the 
halls they habited; the masterpieces of the centuries; the 
ornaments to infinity; the walls of Venetian mirrors that 
multiplied the peerless forms of departed beauty. 

Then I sat on the magic carpet of the fairy tale of the 
long ago, which in a twinkling took me over the channel, 
over Albion, over the sea to my own little library and 
conservatory ; and I asked if all the indescribable magnifi- 
cence beneath the roofs before me were worth^ the 
exchange. No! and I left Versailles, the palace that 
rises from a sea of flowers and verdure, without a sigh or 
desire to return, and thinking that my plain home had 
never before seemed so much a haven of rest and happi- 
ness. 

Aftei oui light breakfast it was no wonder that we were 
now ready to hurry back to Paris for table d'hdte. But 
not so famished that w^e do not note the cleanliness of the 
streets. The Government does the work, and in conse- 
quence the pitiful condition of New York thoroughfares is 
unknown. The funds for the purpose are raised by taxa- 
tion of property exempted in the United States; balconies 
in proportion to their height from the ground, signs, 
lanterns, architectural adornments, etc. 


264 


PARIS. 


The dinner was more bountiful than the morning meal, 
and the linen, cutlery and plate immaculate. Thus ended 
this Saturday night in Paris, so unlike the experiences of 
the “Cotter’s Saturday Night.” The beautiful “Petit 
Trianon” we had visited at Versailles, haunted me, so 
that sleep was very coy. In the lovely dell adjoining the 
dairy, beyond the rustic bridge, the fair form of Marie 
Antoinette we see disguised as a milkmaid, preparing with 
the most charming naivete the milk of her cows, while her 
ladies wander beneath the rich shades in the garb of 
peasants, gypsies and shepherdesses. Poor Marie, who 
sees not the shadow of the axe falling upon her white 
neck ! 

The Paris fever spared me until I was inside its walls ; 
but from that hour to this, it has never subsided. A 
strange confession for a methodical woman to make, one 
who has so few society ambitions. Nevertheless, I do 
like Paris. It is so much happiness to see others happy. 
But a few weeks since I sat in my room at the Sea Shore 
House, looking out upon the mighty waves dashing upon 
Old Orchard Beach ; above the ceaseless roar I could hear 
the syren call to return to that world of light and beauty. 
Who is deaf to it? Even Gibbon cried out, “Ah, had I 
been rich and independent, it is in Paris that I would 
have fixed my residence.” 

But not all of the thousands wending Parisward come 
to augment their joys. To how many is it a world where 
the afflictions and unhappiness of the past may in its man- 
ifold distractions be temporarily forgot; where the parent 
may dwell less upon the memory of the darling child the 
angels early took ; where the fond lover, despairing to 
attain the society of the woman who to him embodies 
the universe, comes to ask the stars reflected in the Seine, 
Why, Fortune, why so cruel? Thus Paris is what you 
would have it — a tomb — a sea basking in the summer 


CONTINENTAL SABBATHS. 


265 


sun, where barques with silken sails, “ Youth at the prow, 
Pleasure at the helm, ” skim over the sparkling waters ; 
a maelstrom, drawing down to hidden deeps of despair 
and ruin the wrecks that have drifted hither from every 
ocean. 

An illustration of the difference between London and 
Parisian life may be drawn from our experience in the 
two capitals on Sundays. In the former city most of our 
party attended the Tabernacle. After the communion I 
had the pleasure of an introduction to Mr. Spurgeon by 
an acquaintance, receiving a cordial invitation from the 
renowned preacher to visit his church again on our return 
from the Continent. In Paris we made Sunday visits to 
the Louvre through streets with open shops and filled with 
gay throngs more festive in manner and dress than we ever 
see on a home Fourth of July. A conservative would 
set down a Sunday visit to an art gallery as comparatively 
harmless; but in Paris the day is unmistakably devoted 
to questionable pleasures, that to one of New England 
training seem little short of being shocking. 

Yet are we not at home losing our hold on the old-time 
Sabbath, when one hundred thousand men, women and 
children go down to Manhattan beach on a single Sab- 
bath ? And even Boston gives Sunday public concerts of 
music which must cause the very bones of the forefathers 
to rattle in their graves. I can never tell how much I saw 
to love and admire between the English Channel and 
Pompeii ; but I hope never to live to see the Continental 
Sabbath transplanted here. 

Am I indeed one of those innumerable Americans who 
are perfect models of decorum and goodness at home, and 
make up for it by a dreadful laxity abroad, especially at 
Paris? It may as well be confessed, heinous as was the 
peccadillo, I went to the Louvre and Tuileries on Sunday, 
in company with many other fellow sinners, not any of 
whom appeared to be suffering under contrition for their 


206 


PARIS. 


transgression. I cannot testify how much polish and 
knowledge we are acquiring from our tour, but one thing 
is certain, we are growing more and more callous to the 
prickings of conscience in regard to these things. 

For a time it looked as though we were not to get 
inside the Louvre, the result of not having applied at the 
proper entrance ; but after hunting up the proper officials 
the portals were opened, and we had a Sabbath-morning 
stroll through miles of halls lined with brilliant paintings, 
particularly interesting as being expositions of contempo- 
rary art as well as the works of old masters. No painting 
or statue can be admitted here until ten years after the 
decease of the artist. The gallery of the Luxembourg, on 
the contrary, only exposes the works of living artists. 

It would be absurd for us to claim that the few hours 
in the Louvre were any thing more than a cursory glance 
would be at a vast garden containing the flora of all 
nations. Practically, the Louvre and Tuileries form one 
palace, covering an area of twenty-four acres. After six 
weeks of daily study we should feel more competent to 
describe it. 

Nothing further was needed to complete our detestation 
of the Communists than to see on the west side of the 
Tuileries, facing the garden, the site of the beautiful 
Pavillion de LTIorloge which their vile hands reduced to 
a heap of ashes. The even more elegant Pavilion of 
Flora on the south side, escaped with but little injury. 
One could weep at the thought of the splendid library and 
collections of painting and sculpture destroyed in 1871, 
that memorable day when the whole civilized world was 
transfixed with horror as the lightning wire flashed the 
words — “The Communists are burning Paris ! ” 

In observing the lively interest of the youth of our 
party, fresh from their half-completed studies, I had 
opportunity to realize the fascination which the animated 
life and varied amusements of this capital possess for those 












Richelieu Pavilion of the Louvre 











YOUNG AMERICAN TOURISTS. 267 

at the age when time treads on velvet. How few of them 
consider the value of the educational advantages they are 
having in their early travels, so immeasurably beyond 
what their fathers knew. 

Where may I find a pen to delineate the beautiful 
women and children we saw in the gardens of the 
Tuileries. The only comparison to be made is the col- 
lection of twelve hundred varieties of humming birds in 
the Academy of Natural History at Philadelphia. Those 
piquant little girls, with their cherry lips and ringlets of 
pale gold! What innate coquettish grace in each toss of 
the head and swing of the body. They are of another 
type, yet they blend in my memory with the cherubs of 
Giotto at Florence, in white robes, like night-gowns 
caught at the waist. 

If you tire of the beauty of animated nature then turn 
your eyes to that gem of art, the Colonnade of the Louvre. 
I have always considered Colonnade Row in Lafayette 
Place, opposite Astor Library, as tire most elegant archi- 
tecture of New York; and in the Louvre Colonnade I 
recognize its prototype, although, of course, vastly supe- 
rior in extent and finish. I am confident every visitor 
to the Astor Library will sustain my judgment when, on 
emerging from that noble depository of learning, the 
fa 9 ade of Colonnade Row meets the gaze; the granite for 
these residences was hewn by convicts at Sing Sing 
Prison. 

The architect of Boston City Hall made a mistake m 
copying the pavilions of the Louvre (very similar to the 
main elevation of the Richelieu Pavilion); they lose their 
character when isolated from the long intervening colon- 
nades; it is equivalent to detaching the elegant tower of 
Brattle street Church and setting it up by itself in the 
square before the Art Museum. Other sections of the 
Louvre, incomplete and meaningless when detached, are 
traceable in our Atlantic capitals, and are in the same 


268 


PARIS. 


questionable taste. Why should unity be violated in archi- 
tecture with less offence than in painting or literature ? 

We thought that after seeing the flowers at Covent 
Garden Market there were no others to excel them. Yet 
the flower markets of Paris are inconceivably more bril- 
liant than those of London; how we were ever drawn 
away from them we know not All Paris meet here on 
equal ground — the duchess, the grisette, grandpcre and 
grandmere, the sunny-haired child, the porter, the states- 
man. I think the very cheffonnier has his hidden corner 
where he gloats over the ermine and white of the violet, 
as much cherished as the queenly rose or the proud 
eamillia in the aristocratic faubourg. 

Do you note in a respectable quarter of the Vaugirard 
the sloping roof with garret dormer, on whose sill is the 
little pot of mignonette? It is the chief floral treasure of 
Suzanne, who long weighed in her hand the franc she won 
by her three hours of overwork. 

“ How nice it will look, the new ribbon, in my hat next 
Sunday; and Jean is so fond of the blue and red! But 
my window is so bare, and Lamette has three plants in 
hers. Yes, it shall be the mignonette. The old ribbon 
will do ; the summer is so quick over, and I may be richer 
when winter comes.” 

How carefully she shelters the plant as she hurries 
home to enshrine it. What is there in the JBon Marche 
so pretty? Then she steps back in the shadow of the 
garret to watch for the admiring, perhaps envious, glance 
of her opposite neighbor, whose window is bare and color- 
less. Now comes her great joy, and she claps her hands 
in ecstasy — the flower is recognized — henceforth it will 
be looked for by her vis-a-vis the first thing after the 
height of the morning sun is marked. The summer 
speeds on; perchance Jean has good luck and can name 
the day when he will place a ring on the finger of 
Suzanne; then the mignonette has a rival; a little gilt 


Colonnade of the Louvre. 



/ 












A GARRET PICTURE. 


269 


cage with a “singer” hangs over it; how artfully the 
drawn white curtain is looped to set off these window 
treasures, the flower and the bird. And when Suzanne 
waters the plant, and winks and chirps to the canary, the 
trio make a picture worthy of the next salon. Strange, 
isn’t it, that you remember Suzanne at the garret window 
longer than the statues, caryatides, bas-reliefs, colonnades 
and wonderful perspectives of the Louvre? 

We are now watching the fountains at the Place de la 
Concorde. Very beautiful they are, but they can never, 
never wash away the crimson tide that swept over the 
spot in the Revolution. 

Those dreadful days of the Commune ! And their 
prelude, the Siege of Paris, more tangible to us than the 
time when the Place de la Concorde was the scene of 
horror. How difficult to realize that but ten years ago 
the wealthiest citizens of this magnificent capital were the 
recipients of daily rations of black bread. Let it not be 
forgotten in this Yorktown Centennial year of 1881, that 
thousands in the besieged city found aid and protection 
from the United States Republic at the hands of its 
honored representative, Hon. E. B. Washburn. I have 
read a vividly written work by an American lady, pub- 
lished in London (I forget the title ; it was dedicated to 
Mr. Washburn), of the dreadful suffering of a poor 
Prussian woman waiting for alms beneath the Stars and 
Stripes floating over the roof of the American Consulate, 
on the door-steps of which the starving creature had 
fallen in despair. I was glad that the constantly shifting 
scenes of splendor and beauty gave no time to think of 
the miseries of those recent days when we trod the locali- 
ties where they occurred. Does Mr. Washburn think of 
them in his peaceful retirement at Chicago ? 

At about the hour we should be sitting down to our 
Sunday tea at home, we are preparing for a Parisian Sun- 
day dinner at six. Very genteel and scientific it is, as 


270 


PARIS. 


becomes a nation that has a different soup for every day 
in the year, and half-a-dozen extra ones for Sundays. The 
waiters fly around with the alacrity of bees, and change 
our plates so often that we have no chance to know the 
pattern. The bread and many of the dishes appear to be 
prepared for Liliputians as to quantity, but the quality, it 
must be confessed, is unexceptionable. However, by the 
time we have gone through the various courses we find we 
really have dined, and are willing to concede the elegance 
of French cuisine, which affords a. dinner that is com- 
pletely satisfying, and from- which you rise without the 
feeling of being gorged. 

I believe in certain periods of both Napoleonic reigns, 
there was strict censorship of the press, and some curtail- 
ment of freedom of speech, especially when Madam de 
Stael was asked to seek a home outside of Paris. It is 
easy to know that if the same license was taken in discuss- 
ing imperial concerns as those of other matters, which one 
cannot forbear overhearing in the Grand Hotel or a 
Palais Royal restaurant, a ruler would be partly justified 
in checking it. If there are resorts where the human 
tongue is less unfettered, more prone to ventilate private 
opinion and domestic minutiae, than here before representa- 
tives of all nations, we do not care to seek them out. Above 
the clinking of glass, the artillery of flying champagne corks, 
the lying down and rising up of the silver fork corps, the 
rattle of the spoon brigade, comes a ceaseless jargon in every 
modern language, but which, fortunately for our sanity, little 
beside that of English is understood. Fill up for yourself 
the “ missing links ” that would make sense of these frag- 
ments, repeated daily with endless variations : “ Mustn’t be 
mentioned the same day with the Hudson ” — “ my hus- 
band would never think of sitting in his shirt sleeves in a 
car where there were ladies” — “ no, no ! never should take 
children again on such a trip ” — “ Do you think we will be 
as sick going back ? ” — “ is splendidly educated, but what a 


PARISIAN GALLANTRY. 


271 


pity he’s so homely — that nose ! ” — “ ’Twill do well enough 
for next winter, dyed and made over” — “eight per cent, 
semi-annually, better than governments ” — “ Americans, to 
be sure, oil wells or silver mines ” — “ so sorry I didn’t take 
another box of these gloves ” — “romantic as a novel, mar- 
ried his model and she only speaks Ital — ’’“don’t say 
cathedrals or statues to me” — >“ roasted at Venice and 
froze on the Rigi” — “ not at all becoming, she’s so light” 

— “No, I didn’t lose it, ’twas stolen at Naples”*- — 
“wouldn’t give my wife for any woman I’ve seen in 
Europe ” — “ that exquisite copy of the Mater Dolorosa ” 

— “ certain that those who are not beggars are worse ” — 
“trouble with us at home is that we’ve too many politi- 
ci — ” — “ am suspicious of people always taking notes ” 

— “in Devonshire next Christmas” — “I wish they were 
all in Tophet — ” 

We will be more generous, and wish our countrymen and 
countrywomen and English cousins on their subsequent 
visits abroad to illuminate their feastings with occasional 
“ flashes of silence.” 

True, they are polite, these Parisians; for they do not 
laugh in our faces at our eccentric French, picked up in 
all sorts of ways, and with accent that must make the 
waiters snicker outright behind the steam of their soups. 
But of Parisian politeness it cannot be said as of very 
great depth, and so far as genuine deference to woman is 
concerned, the rank and file of American gentlemen far 
outvie them. One is the politeness of the head, the other 
of the heart. Unconscious egotists they are, too, these 
Parisians. They never ask you how you like Paris. You 
must like it if you have taste ; and if you have not taste, 
why are you here ? Like a queen of society, the position 
of Paris is so established and universally recognized that 
her children regard her as the city par excellence , and all 
the rest of the world provincial. Poor London ! poor N ew 
York! What are your five or six millions without our 


272 


PARIS. 


gardens and palaces, our salons and opera, onr boulevards 
and cafes f It is the same principle as somebody em- 
ployed in speaking of the choice of residence between 
New York and Boston, giving the preference to the latter, 
for then one would have the pleasure of visiting New 
York. But if you lived in New York, where could you 
visit ? 

As our New England forefathers considered the Sab- 
bath to end with the setting sun, perhaps you will have 
no scruple in taking a look at Paris by night. 

If there is a grander thoroughfare in the world than 
the Avenue of the Champ Elysees, then it is in some capi- 
tal we have not visited. Here are concentrated all appli- 
ances for the enjoyment and recreation of mankind. The 
scene upon the Sabbath of our stay, on this avenue, from 
the Tuileries to the Arc de Triomphe, beggars descrip- 
tion. Men and women of all nations, vehicles of every 
build, brilliant costumes, equestrians, bicyclists and pedes- 
trians, flow in quadruple streams, past the fountains, statu- 
ary and trees. The spectacle so far transcends all that 
had hitherto been seen of street life, that we dazed Amer- 
icans could only stand transfixed with astonishment. 
Originally, the Champ Elys6es was a pleasure-ground, laid 
out by Maria de Medicis in 1G 16, but which was not 
brought to its perfection until the transforming hand of 
Napoleon III. was laid upon it. From noon until six 
o’clock the representatives of Fashion, in elegant carriages, 
tide to and fro on the way to, and returning from, the 
Bois de Boulogne. Unlike our American parks and pleas- 
ure grounds, provisions are here made for the amusement 
of the common classes in a quarter to themselves. In that 
portion of the Champ Elysees next the Place de la Con- 
corde, little shows, jugglers’ tents, cafes-chantants, and 
the like, abound, which keep a ceaseless round of fun for the 
million until midnight. It is not likely the European sys- 
tem of excluding particular classes from portions of pub- 


LIGHT. 


273 


lie grounds will ever be introduced in our capitals. It 
would never do to admit we had in America common 
people ; although it is certain we have some very uncom- 
mon ones. 

Citizens of those of our cities and towns depending upon 
the moon for their gas, must be dazed when they behold 
the illumination of the Champ Elysees, where the very sun 
is outshone by floods of electric light falling on the rest- 
less mass, coming from — we know not where, and going to 
the same destination. 

Not the least novel to us of these night scenes is the 
grace and ease with which the young men on bicycles 
thread their noiseless way amid the surging throng ; their 
custom of carrying upon their wheels a red or green light 
of warning is sensible ; but it occurs to us that a bell or 
something audible would be of more utility. 

Of the Parisian Sabbath little can be said of its sanc- 
tity. Even if you attend church you hear in tfye choir the 
same voices that a few hours before have been carollino- 

O 

forth the gayest arias of the Italian opera. So far 
as we could see, the out-door life of Paris on Sunday is 
the same as that of week-days. All vocations appeared to 
be pursued the same. At noon, however, the shut- 
ers are put up and the Parisian goes out for his- holi- 
day; thus the bourgeois has fifty-two Fourth of Julys 
in a year. On the first Sunday of every month, the fete 
day at Versailles, two hundred thousand Parisians go out 
to see the fountains play, tasking the cars and omnibuses 
to an extent we seldom know. 

Have I alluded to the illumination of the streets radiat- 
ing from the Place de 1’ Etoile ? Imagine yourself stand- 
ing at the Worth monument, Madison Square, where you 
have four perspectives, up and down Broadway, up and 
down Fifth Avenue, the most Parisian sight in America ; 
but from the Arc de l’Etoile you behold twelve grand 
avenues from one point of view; and to look along those 


274 


PABIS. 


perspectives of countless lamps is a sight to kindle the en- 
thusiasm of the coldest. 

What a world is this Paris ! A world of music, flowers, 
and light, where life is one prolonged f6te ; a world that 
levies upon all arts to make it the focus of joy and 
delight ; where Wit flashes its scintillating shaft ; where 
Intellect sits enthroned ; where Wisdom promulgates her 
decrees, and, alas! where Folly so often usurps all other 
rule. 

So we retire without having attended church, even ves- 
per service, in the beautiful St. Sulpice, or Church of the 
Trinity. Paris is Catholic. It is not a century since the 
Protestants had a church here ; but the Bell of St. Bar- 
tholomew will never toll again. Glad we were that Cath- 
erine de Medicis, the modern Jezabel, and her work did 
not come into mind while on the spot she dwelt when her 
hands gave the signal to slaughter the Huguenots. 

It was quite midnight when I closed my curtains. Yet 
the great city was all astir with life. This, then, is Paris, 
the world of so many of my youthful dreams ! The mur- 
mur I hear on the Sabbath midnight air is the hum of her 
millions of tongues. What reveries of the melodious 
enchantment of early life steal over me. The Louvre that 
seemed as beautiful as the palaces of fairyland, and as 
remote, a few hours since was before my literal eyes ? But 
yesterday I reviewed the glories of wonderful Versailles. 
My feet have pressed the very same earth where danced. 
Marie Antoinette when she played milkmaid at Little Tri- 
anon, her only diadem a wreath of lilies and roses. To- 
morrow I will see the tomb of Napoleon Bonaparte. Thus 
hour by hour steal away and leave me musing. 

The midnight chime. It mingles with the song of the 
passing reveller, and the tread of countless feet. Is this 
the same world that contains those peaceful rural towns 
at home, where the inhabitants retire as the clock on the 
white steeple tolls out the hour of nine ? They seem so 


HOTEL DES IXVALIDES. 


275 


far away. There is nothing hut the sky and the stars to 
tell us that we are not in another world. 

No; I am not dreaming. In the corridor I hear the 

well-known step of C , who halts at the door long 

enough to whisper “ Good-night ! He knows there wdll be 
a reprimand for him in the morning, to which lie will 
respond, “ Mother, now you know very well that twelve 
o’clock at night in Paris is only ten p. m. at home.” 

So he escaj)es, as your boys and a thousand others have. 

Monday, our last day in Paris and on the Continent, is 
a busy, bustling, sight-seeing and shopping-day, which we 
commence with a visit to the Hotel des Invalides, where 
the French nation cares for its disabled military children ; 
and memorable from the fact that it contains the ashes of 
the modern Alexander. A magnificent esplanade rises 
from the Seine to the main front of the structure, which 
is upwards of six hundred feet in length. The kitchen 
interested us most, Avhere the cooking facilities are upon 
a gigantic scale, commensurate with the baking and roast- 
ing three thousand pounds of meat daily, and boiling 
their concommitants of sixty-five bushels of vegetables. 
One of the curiosities is a spit capable of roasting four 
hundred pounds of meat at one time. The structure is 
admirably lighted and ventilated ; perfect order and neat- 
ness prevail to the most obscure corner. A library 
of thirty thousand volumes affords the veterans ample 
intellectual fare. The esplanade is adorned with brass 
cannon which tell of the day when France ruled 
Europe ; it is a fine promenade in fair weather, while the 
spacious halls and corridors of the Hotel make good march- 
ing ground when the elements are not propitious out- 
side. 

In the garden are pretty little summer houses trained 
with honeysuckle Avhose scent carries us back to elm- 
shaded grounds -— the scenes of early life. 


276 


PARIS. 


Beneath the grand dome of the church, which towers 
one hundred feet higher than Bunker Hill Monument, we 
find the tomb of Napoleon I. It is in the crypt under the 
high altar, to which you descend by winding staircases. 
It is a most impressive spot ; the mosaic wreath in the 
pavement, the colossal figures upon the pedestals, the 
“ dim religious light ” falling upon the sarcophagus which 
encloses the form of the mighty sleeper, evolve emotions 
which no tomb but that of George Washington could 
equal in intensity. We forget the narrations of Madame 
Remusat, which tend to lower the character of this man, 
and bow in reverence to the ashes of the idol of the 
French people. What revolutions does the whirligig of 
time bring about. The nation that sent the first Bona- 
parte to perish upon a barren rock, now erects a memorial 
to the last, Napoleon IV., who died defending the colors 
of the bitterest enemy of his great predecessor. Should 
this dynast v ever be restored, what more likely than that 
an American may be the fifth of the Bonapartes ? Colonel 
Jerome Bonaparte of Baltimore is certainly the most eligi- 
ble, both by birth and attainments. Wise and astute 
Emperor, you were not infallible ! You put away the only 
woman who ever truly loved you, that you might give an 
heir to the throne of France; but Napoleon III. was the 
descendant of Josephine, not of you. You made your 
brother cast aside his lawful wife because she was but the 
daughter of a Baltimore merchant ; and now that dis- 
carded woman’s descendant is the most worthy of your 
house, the possible heir to all the glories associated with 
your name. 

We took rapid drives to all the most famous lions, 
even to the Morgue, which some would not enter, 
although at the moment it did not happen to contain any 
ghastly unfortunate. 

The boulevards, parks and gardens of Paris we could 
never sufficiently admire. The care of the parks is as near 


SHOPPING. 


277 


perfection as has ever been attained since our first ances- 
tor owned the only garden in the world. At Montreuil 
there is a peach tree so trained that its limbs and foliage 
represent the name “Napoleon” as perfectly as could 
the brush of the painter or the printer’s type. But the 
most wonderful illustration of the skill of French gar- 
deners is a pear tree in the Bois de Vincennes which forms 
a perfect vase \ the process is quite intricate, and mainly 
by grafting. In the Bois de Boulogne there aie two hun- 
dred and fifty acres of grass, of which every square foot 
receives two gallons of water every third day. Hose of 
immense length upon little wheels are drawn over the 
grass, and "the water spurts from numberless jets 
which have much the effect of fountains. About fifty 
gallons a second are drawn from the Seine for the Bois de 
Boulogne. What must be the amount used in the Bois de 
Vincennes, the gardens of the Tuileries and Luxembouig, 
the Champ Elysees and boulevards! The Jardin des 
Plantes probably does not derive its moisture from this 
source ; it must be that a pipe is laid from the cologne 
manufactories on the Rhine, or the rose-water distilleries 
of Persia, so heavenly are the odors that rise from this 
modern paradise, the microcosm of the floral creation. 

Do not imagine that the galleries and libraries make us 
insensible to the shopping facilities of Paris. Were there 
a tunnel under the Atlantic, it would be choked with a 
hegira of American women to this city of shops. Why, 
in the 3Ta(jcisins du Louvre the economical housewife can 
get an outfit for herself and two small girls, from heads 
to heels, for ninety francs, about eighteen dollars — but 
mind, I don’t say "the style or quality would excite the 
enthusiasm of Mr. Worth. 

A tour of half a hundred shops, where another impend- 
ing bankruptcy threatened us, a saunter along the Boule- 
vard des Italiens, sends us back to our hotel in a beauty- 
intoxicated state from which we did not fully recover 


278 


PARIS. 


until we were far on the road to Dieppe by the sea. 

“Normandy?” Yes; that is, all a worn-out pilgrim 
could see of it between Paris and Dieppe : quaint old vil- 
lages that all the rattle of our train could not awake, 
Sleepy-Hollow valleys, lazy ponderous mill-wheels revolv- 
ing under protest at the tiny brooks that forced them, 
sedate-looking factories with bluish-gray roofs and red 
chimneys, fields of carrots and cabbages, neatly-thatclied 
cottages, with here and there groups of old women in caps 
fitting so close as to give their already plump cheeks addi- 
tional bulk, but whose attire is of a much soberer hue than 
the artists have thought necessary to give us. Dark blue, 
almost black, is the prevailing color of the peasant 
woman’s dresses, occasionally relieved by a gayer hand- 
kerchief over the head in lieu of the white cotton cap. 

Dieppe looks very old, very romantic, and preeminently 
suggestive of all seaside delights ; but we cannot linger 
long enough to enjoy its picturesque life, where the cot- 
tages are adorned with garlands of fishes, and young 
girls go wading out on the sands at low tide to search for 
the peculiar white pebble, the jmssession of which assures 
all sorts of happiness, not omitting a good husband. 

Shade of poor Maria Stuart, you who called this land 
“the pleasant country of France,” forgive me for proving 
so recreant to your long-clierished history as to turn my 
back on Dieppe without entering the Church of St. Jacques ! 
Not that it is an architectural lion, but because that 
in 1870 there were discovered in one of its old chapels the 
bodies of the five ambassadors sent to Paris to represent 
Scotland at the marriage of the Queen of Scots and the 
Dauphin. To be sure, three-hundred-year-old coffins are 
not very inspiring or cheerful objects for contemplatian, 
but the spectacle might have served to give a realism to 
the only happy period in the life of this beautiful and 
most unfortunate of her sex. 

Dieppe, by this time, is east of us, and we are battling 


THE BBITISH CHANNEL. 


279 


with the horrid chop sea of the Channel. All other mun- 
dane matters are now driven from minds nearly as blank 
as the inevitable results of seasickness have left our 
bodies. It is sixty miles across on this route, double the 
distance from Dover to Calais, but the sea here is thought 
to be less choppy. 

Oh, you heartless ones, secure in your exemption from 
the ills for which the skill of man for six thousand years 
has found no panacea, who intimate there are nine 01 ten 
days of similar misery in store for us on the Circassia , 
before we can behold the Highlands of New Jersey! 
Should we measure the distance across the Channel from 
Dieppe to Newhaven by the discomfort of the passage, it 
would be many more leagues than the geographers assign 
it. Even over the smoothest water, a boat filled with 
twice the number of passengers it has proper provision 
for, the surplus having no better accommodation for sleep- 
ing than that afforded by the cabin floor, the transit could 
not be other than extremely uncomfortable ; but when to 
this is added the wretched results of sickness, it is no 
wonder that so many resolve never again to voluntarily 
commit themselves to the rough mercies of the British 
Channel. 


THE MOTHERLAND. 


I T was with feelings of great elation we again 
approached English soil. Next to the sight of 
American shores, no other could have been so welcome as 
the coast of Sussex. If we were tempted to ramble along 
the French coast at Dieppe, what may we say of the 
desire to make Newhaven the base of an exploring expe- 
dition to the Wye, and the historic grounds of that sea- 
bordered county. Kind and gentle reader, if you are 
kind and gentle — you certainly are polite, else you 
would not have accompanied us thus far — you need not 
look ahead to see if a dozen pages are to succeed in 
which the history of Sussex is recapitulated. I will 
profit by the costly experience of Mr. Ede, of Dorking, 
who printed Brayley’s “History of Sussex ” by which he 
lost ten thousand pounds. Fortunately, in addition to 
being a good printer, Mr. Ede was a skilled chemist, and 
the choice perfumes of his concoction so pleased the 
olfactories of the public that he made up the loss sus- 
tained in catering to more intellectual organs. Our 
American publishers are more lucky in similar ventures, 
histories of counties and towns falling from the press like 
the leaves of apple-blossoms in spring. We will only 
keep you by the wayside through Sussex long enough to 
renew our admiration for English rural scenery, ° that 
green which is truly “fadeless.” You well know the 
parched look of our hills and pastures after exposure to a 
dry August sun, but these woodlands, parks and mead- 
ows of Sussex and Kent we are now passing by at the 


AMERICAN BEEF AND ENGLISH TEA. 


281 


summer’s close, are as verdant, as fresh, as in early June. 

The three thousand miles intervening between us and 
home are forgotten, and we enter London as contentedly as 
we would New York or Philadelphia. Indeed, of the 
latter city there is much to remind of London, for the 
quaint old inns of the Quaker City, the “ Bulls’ Heads ” 
and “ Black Bears,” with their shut-in courts, seem to be 
bodily transported from the older parts of London. The 
Inns of Court, where we were quartered on our first visit, 
although the farthest removed from the brightness of our 
metropolitan hotels, was very English, very homelike, and 
eminently suggestive in associations that will occur to all 
lovers of English literature. 

To save time, we dined at a hotel near the station, of 
which Ave never knew the name, but Avhose menu left 
nothing to be desired to lovers of substantial fare. It is 
not convenient at this moment to look back upon pages 
now in the hands of the stereotyper, four hundred miles 
away, to find if I have indulged in any reflections upon 
the cuisine of Europe ; but in candor I will confess -that I 
now was seized with an impulse to devote more thought, 
both anticipatory and reflective, to what was to be or 
what had been provided for our material wants. Singularly 
enough, the only deficiency at this dinner of English 
solids, led by the traditional roast beef — quite sure it 
was an importation from the Mohawk valley — was in the 
tea. Possibly the attendants thought the tour of the 
Continent had left our nerves in a condition unfit to bear 
the tonic properties of the cheering cup ; at any rate, 
we found it impossible to raise the strength of the 
usual bracing beverage to a satisfactory point. The 
Times of a few days before, contained a report of a sale 
of fifteen thousand pounds of tea by one house, but it is 
quite certain the invoice was none the lighter from any 
indulgence of ours at that dinner. 

It would serve no purpose to wait here for the German 


282 


THE MOTHERLAND. 


greeting, “May your food be blessed to you,” so we 
may as well be off to fill up the last pages in our almost 
overflowing note-book. 

There is something solid in England beside dinners ; 
indeed, of everything of the Kingdom is there solidity. 
And here is where we may learn how many crises in 
the century of our national existence have we undergone 
— crises in which we feared the Ship of State would go 
down irretrievably. The Englishman preserves his 
equanimity from the cradle to the grave ; whatever may 
happen elsewhere, England will stand, her millions will 
eat and sleep and be clothed the same as of yore. When 
Pitt said, “ I have no fear of England, she will stand till 
the day of judgment,” he spoke for the nation. 

Those of our party who were with us in London, and 
who may see these pages, will perceive that I have here 
blended the experiences of both visits, for our last was all 
too brief for what we wished to accomplish. 

No, Mrs. G , those are not the same pigeons we 

saw on the piazza of St. Mark’s at Venice, these that are 
whirling and circling over Story’s statue of Mr. Peabody 
near the Royal Exchange, although they are as numerous, 

as cooing, as hungry, and, says Miss , as untidy. 

Where they come from, to whom they belong, and what 
is their history, none could tell us. Perhaps they are 
tenants of the roofs of our American j3hilanthropist’s 
model houses at Islington, for the London poor, and are 
here to attest their gratitude. Apropos, there is much 
complaint that the class Mr. Peabody intended to benefit 
have to stand back in favor of clerks and salaried men. 
Herein we see the wisdom of Peter Cooper in carrying 
out his philanthropic intent during his own life, and 
who thus stands indisputably the greatest practical phil- 
anthropist of the age. The reader is spared a recital of our 
visits to the Abbey, and all the brave sights of London, 
but could I write something worthy of the Thames Em- 


LONDON BRIDGE. 


283 


bankment I would not be so lenient. Think of such a 
walk along North River, the Schuylkill, or the Charles ! 
In the Tunnel we walk as far beneath the shipping over 
our heads as on the Brooklyn Bridge we may over it under 
our feet. And now they are building one twenty miles 
long under the Channel, at the rate of three miles a year ; 
if they should work at the same rate from the French 
coast another modern wonder will astonish the world in 
less than four years. 

London Bridge ! my head is scarcely yet restored to 
its normal poise. It seems as if half the men and horses 
of the nation were here fighting to see which could get 
into London quickest. In Elizabeth’s day old London 
Bridge was covered with houses ; were they here now the 
occupants would be well-balanced if able to keep their 
senses in that Bedlam. The jam at the junction of Park 
Row and Broadway in comparison is as the Falls of Tivoli 
to Niagara. And there, in that human glacier, in that 
wedged mass of man, brute, and vehicle, was a market- 
wagon of vegetables, surmounted by a woman eating a 
lunch us unconcernedly as though in the corner of a coun- 
try field. For a bit of poetry in so matter-of-fact a scene 
one could have wished the contents of that wagon had 
been the hops of Kent, or tulips and roses for Covent 
Garden ; but inexorable prosaic reality forces it to be 
writ down that the freight was cabbages and turnips, with 
not even a dozen carrots to give color and grouping. 

Dear A , at this moment of our visit to the Zoologi- 

cal Garden playing with his dog at Norwich, on the banks 
of a lesser Thames, how gladly would I have taken you here 
to see the wonderful birds and hear the roar of the lions. 
And if you liked better to watch the frolics and gambols 
of the monkeys, you are no more childish than men and 
women whose hair is bearing record of four times as many 
winters as you have seen. 

“ Where do they get them ? ” 


284 


THE MOTHERLAND. 


“ Well, originally they are captured in Asia, Africa, and 
other far-away countries ; but most of them before they 
reach the Zoo have served an apprenticeship at Jamrack’s.” 

“ Jamrack’s ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“No such place on my atlas ! ” 

“ Bless you, child, I should have said Mr. Jamrack’s. He 
is the man who buys up all the elephants, tigers, lions, and 
all manner of beasts and birds. Then they are brought 
to his shops in Ratcliffe Highway, East London, where 
you can order a tiger, a wolf, or a East India snake, as 
readily as a velocipede at the toy-store. The brightest of 
the animals are put into training, and by the time they 
leave Jamrack’s are very well educated ; but no amount 
of drilling will ever prevent the lions from roaring just 
before their lunch hour. For all they open their mouths 
so wide* and roll their eyes so fearfully, they are noble- 
looking brutes, and Mr. Jamrack sometimes gets as high 
as three hundred pounds for one healthy and young.” 

East London will not keej) you after you leave Jam- 
rack’s; it is not nice. I use the word in its English 
sense. Dirty, slatternly, and beery, like New York east 
of the Bowery. More regal are our surroundings now, 
as we stand before the picturesque red brick gateway 
of St. James Palace ; or, as we halt a moment in front 
of Marlborough House, near by, where the obstinate 
Sarah told her physician “I won’t be blistered, and I 
won’t die ; ” and she didn’t until she had seen her eighty- 
fifth year. Her heirs held the house until 1817, when 
it was purchased for the Princess Charlotte, the lovely 
daughter of a despicable father. Subsequently it was 
the residence of Adelaide, widow of William IV., and is 
now the home of the Prince of Wales. 

Should I write here of what we saw at the Crystal 
Palace, my readers would be assured that I had left 
my heart, as well as my wits, in those fairy halls at 


QUIET RESTING PL AC ESN 


285 


Sydenham. A ride of twenty miles from- Victoria Station, 
Pimlico, brought us to Sydenham Hill, crowned with the 
glittering net-work of iron and glass. Of the natural 
features of the spot it is enough to say that here Camp- 
bell wrote his beautiful jDastoral poem, “ Gertrude of 
Wyoming ; ” but the parks, the woods, the gardens and 
fountains are all minor to the ultimatum of man’s power 
to concentrate in one view the beauty and glory of 
earth s nation's. Good old England, it is with not one 
throb less of patriotism that we are proud of descent 
from a people capable of such grand achievements. 
Emerson said that to see England needs a hundred 
years, and we feel that a tenth part of that time could be 
spent in these halls, where we go from China to Japan, 
from Sweden to Africa, as at home we pass from kitchen 
to parlor. There may be more profitable objects for 
study than those Japanese vases whose golden bowls are 
covered with flowers and birds of indescribable plumage ; 
but for all that they hold us captivated until we are 
enticed away by the ecstacies of fr!ends who are examining 
laces ethereal as those of India known as the “Woven 
Wind,” which, laid upon the grass to bleach, become 
invisible as their delicate fibres are saturated with dew. 

Sydenham, formerly Cypenham, “ village of wells,” was 
once a sort of English Wiesbaden. Two hundred years 
ago a Dr. Peters discovered mineral wells here which 
attained great celebrity. When it was proposed to trans- 
port the Crystal Palace from Hyde Park, the owners of 
real estate nearly lost their heads in the prospect of all 
the world wanting to make their homes in the vicinity. 
Although there are here many elegant villas, the residences 
of artisans appear to be in the majority. We only saw 
one church, St. Bartholomew, which has one of those 
beautiful church-yards so gently described in Dr. Raleigh’s 
sermon “ Quiet Resting Places.” It contains some elegant 
memorials, not any more tasteful than that erected in 


286 


THE MOTHERLAND. 


honor of Mr. Samuel Phillips, a gifted contributor to the 
London “ Times,” and the “ Illustrated News.” Upon a 
pile of sculptured books rests an empty oil vase of classic 
shape ; near it is a broken lam]), on a fragment of which 
is inscribed : Sic transit vitce flamma. The propensity 
to visit graveyards is so general that I think no apologies 
are needed for including notices of several. There was 
one English woman whose memory I would gladly have 
honored, by visiting her burial-place at Litchfield, had 
circumstances permitted ; for the philanthropy of Lady 
Mary Wortley Montague, in introducing from Turkey 
the remedy for the small-pox, and her heroism in testing 
its efficacy by first inoculating her own children, appeals 
to the best impulses of human nature. 

Only six hours for return to London, and an omnibus- 
ride over Tottenham Court Road to the only suburb we 
can visit. Let us here forget we have ever heard of 
Richmond, Ivew, Greenwich, Primrose Hill and Hampton 
Court, as we land at the base of Highgate Hill, four miles 
north of St. Paul’s, a spot so long identified with the aris- 
tocracy of genius, birth and wealth. In Elizabeth’s reign 
it was so much a forest as to have been a favorite hunt- 
ing ground. It was long a cul de sac , no road extending 
beyond ; but the growing millions must have shelter, and 
within another century Highgate parish will have lost 
all that rurality which has so attracted the cultured of the 
preceding time. The Hill is four hundred feet above the 
level of the Thames, yet covered with verdure from which 
rises a steeple of almost New England outline. Hans 
Andersen was overpowered as he viewed London from 
here. By night the scene is one never to be forgotten, so 
impressive and novel ; as if all the constellations of the 
sky had fallen into an ebony ocean. On the west side is 
an antique inn, the “Fox and Crown,” the property of 
the man who once saved the life of Victoria. She was 
riding in company with her mother, the Duchess of Kent, 


H1GHGA TE CE METER Y. 


287 


a few days after her coronation, when the horses took 
fright and ran furiously down the slope. The landlord 
of the inn succeeded in arresting the animals, and saved 
the life of the Queen. How often since that hour of peril 
has she needed to summon the wonderful composure she 
possesses, and which must have been cruelly tested in the 
fanatical attack of March 2, 1882. 

On the southeastern slope is the most beautiful ceme- 
tery around London, Highgate Cemetery, where Coleridge 
and Shelley loved to come and wander among the homes 
of the dead. All that is mortal of hundreds of sons 
and daughters of genius here awaits the universal man- 
date that dooms humanity to mingle with Mother Earth. 
How calmly they rest in their narrow beds overlooking the 
great life-battle, which day nor night never ceases, where 
for every man that falls two step in to fill his place. 
How great a factor were these sleepers so late in the 
literary and art circles of London. Yet they leave no 
vaccuum, and the remorseless city goes on the same, like 
flames more angry when opposed. 

Although the day, for London, was very clear, “ Queen’s 
weather,” the smoke of the city could be seen from High- 
gate as far as the eye could reach It is sometimes visible 
in the atmosphere in regions forty miles distant from its 
source, when driven by strong winds. 

I forgot how many tons of coal dust are estimated to 
be perpetually held in the London atmosphere. We un- 
derstand why our American skies appear so bright to the 
English. The fogs we fortunately escaped, but by an 
odd coincidence I was approaching New London, Conn., 
on the very day we had at home an imitation of a London 
fog, the “Yellow Day” of September, 1881. As the 
original, however, is claimed to be so dense it could be 
cut into slices, like cheese, our imitation on the American 
Thames could not be considered a great success. 

The traditional spot at Highgate, where Dick Whitting- 


288 


THE MOTHERLAND. 


ton halted to give ear to the chime of Bow Bells calling 
him to return to London and become Lord Mayor, is marked 
by a stone. Cromwell House — what an ubiquitous man, to 
have occupied all the Cromwell Houses in England — 
Holly Lodge, the property of Mrs. Burdett-Coutts-Bart- 
lett, the homes of William and Mary Howitt, Florence 
Nightingale, and many other honorable roofs, are seen 
rising above the verdure of Highgate lanes and gardens. 
It makes one almost pensive to know that sooner or later 
all this loveliness must give place to prosaic brick and 
mortar ; for nobly as Highgate resists the approaches of 
the town, it must succumb at last. A wayfarer, it is said, 
cannot lie down by the roadside of a London suburb 
without finding a new block of buildings that have arisen 
about him on awakening from his noonday nap. Like 
Tennyson’s Brook, London goes on forever. 

Once again amid the roar of London, our last evening 
on a foreign shore ; but we must utilize the few remaining 
hours. 

As I overlooked this great capital from Ludgate Hill 
and St. Paul’s, my heart sank within me at the thought 
of what can a hundred, a thousand, wjmen do in aiding 
the reformation of the fallen and degraded dwelling in 
the maze of lanes, alleys and courts. Yet if woman’s 
work in London mission fields was suspended even for a 
single day, the records of vice and suffering would tell 
how great is her labor. Especially in temperance reform 
have London women brought about noble and encourag- 
ing results, particularly among seamen, a class naturally 
prone to the use of strong drink. I was much interested 
in the Temperance League of Naval Work, of which Miss 
Agnes L. Weston, formerly of Bath, is the efficient sup- 
erintendent, and whose zeal, systematic and sustained 
efforts are worthy of emulation in all Christian work. 

Those who here cater to the debased appetites of 
humanity have an effrontery I believe rarely to be paral- 


BOW BELLS. 


289 


leled in our own land. Gin palaces, glittering with bril- 
liant light and gaudy decoration, intrude upon ground 
hallowed by time-honored churches ; almost under the 
vei^y eaves of mission homes where the street wanderer 
may find shelter from temptation, vile bar-rooms and beer 
saloons open wide their doors to entrap the passer-by. 
Here let me take opportunity to say, that the prevailing 
opinion in the United States that if wine and beer were 
as cheap, and as commonly used as in Europe, intemper- 
ance would be lessened, is a fallacy. In many of the 
Swiss cantons producing wine, the beverage is mostly 
consumed at home, and Swiss reformers look upon the 
opening of a new vineyard with the same regret we view 
the addition of another bar-room to a rural town. Those 
in France who have at heart the welfare of its artisans 
have shown the baneful effects of the introduction of 
German beer into such districts as Lyons and other manu- 
facturing centres. Alexander the Great died drunk, and 
history has not qualified the degradation of his end 
because he was drunk on wine ; and it would not, had 
beer been the cause of his inebriation. 

Half-way down Cheapside we find Bow Church, with 
its beautiful old tower built, I believe, by Wren. Our 
visit was not timed to be favored with hearing the chime 
of its bells, which echo of Whittington and his Cat. In 
those days it was the duty of the clerk to ring Bow Bell 
at eight, the signal for the London prentice boys to cnase 
their labors for the day. No wonder they were impatient, 
when our prentice boys think six o’clock very long in 
arriving. Well, the clerk of Bow Church was not 
always prompt, and rung the bell after time, at which 
the prentices protested: 

Clerke of the Bow Bell 
With the yellow lockes, 

For thy late ringing 

Thou shalt have knockes. 


290 


THE MOTHERLAND. 


Rhyme is a great pacificator, and the clerk instead of 
giving a saucy reply, as he would very likely have done 
had the prentices shook their fists in his face, and threat- 
ened him in prose, hastened to make amends by pro- 
claiming this response: 

Children of Chepe, 

Hold you all stille, 

For you shall have Bow Bell 
Bung at your wille. 

Some very learned men have written many pages to 
prove that the story of Whittington’s Cat is all a myth ; 
but there are thousands who will cherish it with all the 
other traditions that made bright their childhood. 

I have elsewhere alluded to our visit at Mr. Spur- 
geon’s Tabernacle, which has about twice the seating 
capacity of Plymouth Church, and, judging from the 
crowds on the day of our visit, large congregations go 
away every Sabbath unable to get in. We have many 
ministers superior in oratory and pulpit graces, but none 
of more piety, or who exceed him in knowledge of 
Scripture. Above all, his faith, his unshaken belief in 
the vitality of the Christian religion, are as refreshing 
as evening dews falling upon a parched garden. Who 
can help but view with alarm the dangerous sentiments 
which, under the disguise of “liberalism” and “con- 
servatism” are drawing thousands into the quicksands 
of doubt and uncertainty ? 

If we left St. James Park without calling your atten- 
tion to Bird Cage Walk, it was not because we had no 
eyfes for it. The whole park is lovely, and no doubt 
the boys think it was laid out as a place in which 
to have “a good time,” for its outline is very much 
like a kite. It has always been a retreat for the 
feathered creation; as long ago as the time of James 
I. there was an aviary here and Charles II. lined one 


ENGLISH IGNORANCE OF AMERICA. 


291 


avenue with beautiful bird-cages. Queen Caroline, w r ife 
of George II., thought the spot quite too charming 
for any but the Royal family, and asked Sir Robert 
Walpole what it would cost to thus appropriate it. 
“Only two crowns,” answered the thoughtful courtier. 
The bird-cages are now gone, but in their stead are ropes 
festooned between the trunks of grand old trees, upon 
which are large rings for parrots and paroquets. 

We certainly do feel more at home in England than 
elsewhere in the Old W orld ; and in London the word 
American, applied to a thousand commodities, from beef 
to baby-jumpers, is so common as to cause wonder that 
the bulk of the English people are yet so ignorant of 
our geographical boundaries and social status. What 
American school-boy but would draw from memory a 
map of Great Britain, and analyze the characteristics of 
the Scotch, the Irish and Welsh? The most amusing 
blunders, from which even the London press is not exempt, 
are of constant occurrence in relation to our country. 
An apposite incident is narrated by Mrs. Martha Babcock 
Amory, in the lately published “ Domestic and Artistic 
Life of John Singleton Copley.” She was dining in Lon- 
don with the Baroness Lionel Rothschild, where she first 
met her distinguished relative, Lord Lyndhurst. The 
company was a very brilliant one ; but what would we 
think of a guest at the table of an American hostess 
inquiring of an English woman if the Indians were more 
numerous in London since Victoria became Empress of 
India. It would be no more absurd than the following, 
as related by Mrs. Amory : “ I was seated at his (Lord 

Lyndhurst) side, and among the unknown guests a lady 
opposite said to me, ‘ Do you know Mary ? I ask because 
I am told you are an American.’ I quietly hinted that 
there were so many Marys between the Atlantic and 
Pacific coasts, that I needed a farther clue to the lady in 
question, to give a satisfactory answer. 


292 


THE MOTHERLAND. 


t4t 01i, I mean my niece, Mary Napier; her husband, 
you know, is our Minister at Washington.’ Fortunately 
I could plead an intermediary acquaintance through my 
mother. The second query was whether Mrs. Stowe was 
black. This, however, was often asked in Europe at the 
time ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ appeared.” 

The hour of our departure, six r. m., has arrived. The 
scene at our headquarters in London for many hours had 
been one full of bustle and confusion; all our steamer 
apparel had been stored during our tour of the Continent; 
this had to be overhauled, our souvenirs and other pur- 
chases packed, and the final preparations made for the 
home voyage. 

The last strap buckled and the last trunk locked, we 
leave Loudon, and reach Glasgow at an early hour the next 
morning. To my infinite vexation, my thick steamer 
cloak I had laid down in the station was stolen, and in 
consequence I had to order a substitute, an ulster, at 
Glasgow ; but so brief was the interval before our depart- 
ure, when it reached me it was unfinished, and the 
completion was the work of my own hands, on the 

steamer. Now, C , what would you or any of your 

young gentlemen mates have done in a similar emergency ? 

Several familiar faces are missed, belonging to those 
who have decided to prolong their tour. We soon had 
cause to regret we also had not lingered with them, and 
thus escaped an experience which for the time converted 
us to the belief of a famous American divine — “Those 
whom God hateth he sendeth to sea.” 

Glasgow, to an American, is a city of no little interest, 
a sort of fusion of Lowell, Rochester, and Baltimore. 
It has a population about equal to that of Boston, and 
few cities abroad appear more thrifty and well goverened. 
On our first visit we explored the city quite extensively, 
riding over a great deal of territory in a brief time. The 
Green is a very pretty ground extending along the Clyde, 


DEPARTURE FROM LONDON. 


293 


co\ ei ing an area of one hundred and forty acres, and 
foimerly the favorite residence of the aristocracy, who 
have now abandoned it to a humbler class of citizens. 
The harbor is kept lively by the arrival and departure of 
small steamers up and down the Clyde, running to river- 
side towns, and which no doubt are built with that 
thoroughness which has given Clyde vessels of greater 
dimensions an enviable celebrity throughout the world. 

-A. l ide of twenty miles by rail from Glasgow lands us 
at the quay at Greenock, from which we are transferred 
to t<he little steamboat that carries us out to the Circassia , 
a magnificent steamer, quite equal, old travellers say, to 
the Cunarders in finish and luxury. 

Securing a seat on deck which commanded a view of 
the indented coast of Scotland, where lake-like harbors 
mirror the rising hills, I resigned to others the task of 
making our state-room as comfortable as an apartment 
the size of an average pantry would admit. Well I knew 
that the weather would demand that the substitute for 
the stolen cloak be soon ready for use ; but my eyes were 
so prone to wander to the fast receding shores that my 
fingers proved sad truants to their duty. Every moment 
the green heights lessened and came nearer the sea. Now 
they are putting on a robe of blue, which later deepens into 
a purple mist. For the first hour in two months I was in 
perfect repose ; not a moment of that time had there been 
opportunity for aught but wonder, admiration or solicitude 
for rest ; we had, as it were, for that period been revolv- 
ing the mechanism of a huge kaleidoscope which brought 
to view an endless succession of varying scenes, keeping 
mind and body stretched to the highest tension. It was 
not until then I realized the magnitude of our tour in its 
entirety. What privileges had been ours since that first 
evening in a foreign land when I sat in my room at 
Glasgow, unlit, save by the pure afterglow, waiting for 
night, which in that high latitude comes with such lag- 


294 


THE MOTHERLAND. 


ging aj>proach that when our friends in the parlor are bid- 
den good-night, it is yet light enough out-doors to read 
fine print. 

Until about noon of our second day at sea, the weather 
continued delightful, and no seasickness on board the 
Circassia. At midnight, or shortly after, of the second 
day, the advance signs of a gale arrived, quickly followed by 
the gale itself, which each moment increased in violence. 
The trunks piled each side of the passage-way where the 
second-class passengers took their meals, inaugurated a 
game of pitch and toss, and the thunder they occasioned 
in their attempts to break through the ship’s sides, ming- 
ling with the crash of crockery, the creaking of the tim- 
bers, the groans of the sick ones, and the cries of the 
frightened, made the night one of such horror that a 
life-time can never serve to obliterate. It was only by the 
greatest effort that I was able to keep in my berth as the 
ship rolled in spasmodic jerks from side to side, dashing 
me against the wall of the berth at one moment, the next 
leaving me hovering over the outside edge, in momentary 
expectation of being hurled to the floor. Feeling that the 
last hour had certainly come, I rushed out toward the 
stairway, where some of the male passengers already 
tvere, and who expressed the belief that it Would be but a 
few moments before we should all be at the bottom of 
the sea. At this moment a heavy sea came sweeping 
down the stairs, and I retreated to my room, giving up 
all for lost. To add to the horrors, there were horses on 
board which Were distressingly sick; the sides of their 
stalls had to be padded, as the animals were valuable, and 
as the roughness increased they were suspended to pre- 
vent their injury. 

Sailors have a superstition that if passengers write it 
produces a calm when they need wind; quite paradoxi- 
cal by the Way, for some of the most terrible of tempests 
have been raised by the pen. If there is any foundation 


THE GALE. 


295 


for the belief, there were ink-notes enough on board to 
have exempted us from this upheaval in Neptune’s king- 
dom. Would that the engineers could defeat this exact- 
ing despot as easily here as they are likely to do beneath 
the British Channel. For the solace of those who have 
in view a trip over the sea, let us add that this storm was 
exceptional, and that probably many voyages might be 
made without encountering one of equal violence. 

At about the fourth day, the storm commenced to abate ; 
finally, the sea subsided, the sun rolled out from a bank of 
clouds, and we had an ocean sunset of great magnificence. 
The remainder of the voyage was all that could be desired. 
In due time the Highlands of New Jersey gladdened eyes 
famishing for the sight of home; shortly after we were 
face to face with the New York Custom house representa- 
tives; and so thankful to stand once again on our native 
shores that we would not even be angry with the not 
altogether satisfactory requirements of those officials, 
whose heads are always in such danger from the political 
guillotine that tourists are heavily taxed to compensate 
them for their continual anxieties. 











: . - •* 


-'T 




D. Lothrop <S° Co., Publishers , 32 Franklin Street , Boston , Mass. 

CHOICE FICTION. 

From Night ‘to Light. By E. E. Brown. i6mo, illustrated. 1.25 
Fabrics. By the author of “Finished or Not.” i6mo, illustrated. 1.50 
Good Work. By Mary Dwinell Chellis. i6mo, cloth, illust. 1.50 
Half Year at Bronckton. By Margaret Sidney. An unusually vig- 
orous and life-like story of school-boy life. i6mo, illust. 1.25 

How Two Girls Tried Farming. By Dorothea Alice Shepherd. 

i6mo, paper, .50 ; cloth. 1.00 

John Bremm. His Prison Bars. A Temperance Story. By A. A. Hop- 
kins. i6mo, cloth. i- 25 

More Ways than One. By Alice Perry. Author of “Esther Penne- 
father.” A story of singular beauty and power. i6mo, 484 pp., illust. 1.50 
Mystery of the Lodge. By Mary Dwinell Chellis. i2mo. 1.50 
Only Way Out (The;. By Mrs. Jennie F. Willing. A temperance 
story of the highest order. i2mo. i- 5 ° 

Poor Papa By Mary W. Porter. i6mo, illustrated, paper covers, .50 
cloth. I -°° 

Sinner and Saint. By A. A. Hopkins. i2mo, extra cloth. 1.25 

So As By Fire By Margaret Sidney. Author of Five Little Peppers. 

1.25 
1.50 
.80 

1.25 
Mort, 

1.25 
1. 00 


i2mo, illust. 

St. Augustine’s Ladder. By Annette L. Noble. i6mo, illust. 
Through Struggle to Victory. By A. H. Meservy. i6mo. 
Trapper’s Niece (The). I2m0, cloth, illustrated. 

Tempter Behind (The). By John Saunders. Author of Israel 
Overman. i2mo, illust. 

Torn and Mended. By Wm. F. Round. i6mo, cloth. 

The Pettibone Name. By Margaret Sidney. Author of Five Little 
Peppers, So As by Fire, etc. i6mo, cloth. 1.25 

Todays and Yesterdays. By Carrie Adelaide Cook. Author of 
From June to June. i2mo, cloth, illust. 1*25 

Up and down the Merrimac. A vacation trip. By Pliny Steele 
Boyd. i6mo, paper covers, .50; cloth. i-oo 

Violet Douglas ; or, Problems of Life. By Emma Marshall. i6mo, 
illustrated. I, 5 ° 

Warlock o’ Glenwarlock. By George Macdonald, iamo, fully 

illustrated. X ' 7 S 

White Hand (A). By Ella Farm an. A story of American society. 

i6mo, illustrated. I * 5 ° 

What followed the Freshet. By Rev. Edward A. Rand. i6mo, 

cloth. I,2 5 

Yensie Walton. By Mrs. S. R. Graham Clark. A delightful story 

of girl life. i2mo, cloth, illust. 

Yensie Walton’s Womanhood. Sequel to Yensie Walton. By Mrs 
S. R. Graham Clark, iamo, cloth, illust. I *S° 



B. Lothrop & Co., Picblishers, 32 Franklin Street, Boston, Mass. 


BELLES-LETTRES, 

Antiquities of the Jews. By Flavius Josephus. Translated by William 
Whiston, M. A. 8vo, cloth, plain, 1.00. Extra cloth, gilt top, illust. 1.50 
Ballad Book (The). A selection of the choicest British Ballads. Edited by 
William Allingham. With a vignette. i6mo, 1.25. Red-line edition. 3.00 
Book of Praise. Selected and arranged by Roundell Palmer. Vignette 
Title, i6mo, 1.25. Illustrated red-line edition. 

Cheerful Words. From George MacDonald. Edited by E. E. Brown. 

With a biography. Introduction by James T. Fields. i6mo. 1.00 

Chips from the White House ; or, Selections from the Speeches, Con- 
versations, Diaries and Letters of all the Presidents of the United States. 
Prepared by Jeremiah Chaplin, 12010, extra cloth. . I>50 

Domestic Problems : Work and Culture in the Household By Mrs. A. 

M. DrAZ. Two volumes in one. i6mo, illust. ! 00 

Englishman and the Scandinavian (The)., By Frederick Metcalfe 
A comparison of Old Norse Literature. 8vo, cloth. 4>5 o 

Garland (A), from the poets. Edited by Coventry Patmore. i2mo, 1.25 
Beautifully printed on plate paper with red lines. ’ 3 

Golden Deeds. By Charlotte M. Yonge. i 2 mo, illust. edition. L25 
Golden Treasury (The), of the Best Songs and Lyric Poems in the Eng- 
lish language. Selected and arranged by Francis Turner Palgrave. 
i6mo, 1.25. Illustrated red-line edition. 3 QO 

He Leadeth Me, and other poems. i6mo, 1.25. Quarto, red lines. 3.00 
Helpful Thoughts for Young Men. By T. D. Woolsey, D. D., LL. D. 
i2mo. 

Might of Right. From Rt. Hon. Wm. E. Gladstone. By E. E. Brown" 5 
Introduction by Hon. John D. Long. Cloth, i2mo. , Q0 

Pilgrim’s Progress. i8mo, edition, complete, .75. i 2 mo edition fully 
illustrated by Stothard, i.oo. Gilt edges, 1.25. Red lines. ^ Q o 

Shakespeare’s Complete Works. The Household edition. It contains 
an Appendix and Glossary, a critical biography and numerous illustrations. 
i2mo, bevelled boards. 

2.00 

Story of the Manuscripts With fac-simile illustrations of the various 
New Testament Manuscripts. By Rev. George Merrill, iamo, cloth. 1.00 
Story of English Literature (The). By Lucy Cecil White. (Mrs. 
Lillie). i2mo, illust. 

Thoughts that Breathe. From the writings of Dean Stanley. Edited by 
E. E. Brown. Introduction by Rev. Phillips Brooks. i6mo, cloth. 1.00 
True Manliness. From the writings of Thomas Hughes. Edited by E. E. 

Brown. Introduction by James Russell Lowell. i6mo, cloth. 1.00 
Waifs and their Authors. By A. A. Hopkins. Quarto, extra cloth, 
illust., plain edges, 2.00. Gilt edges. 2 ’ 

Wars of the Jews. By Flavius Josephus. Translated by William 
Whiston, M. A. 8vo, cloth, plain, 1.00. Extra cloth, gilt top, fully il. T . 50 



D. Lothrop & Co., Publishers , 32 Franklin Street , Boston , Mass. 

BOOKS IN LIBRARIES. 

ANY VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY WHEN DESIRED. 

THE POPULAR “PANSZ” BOOKS. 

No writer has achieved a more enviable reputation than “ Pansy.” Her style is unique, and 
the strong, healthy, natural spirit breathed through all her writings, ennobles the mind, making 
the manly more strong and the womanly more true. 

20 volumes at $1.50. 6 vols. at $1.25. 3 vols. at #1.00. 8 vols. at 75 cis. 10 vols. at 30 cts. 

DISCOVERERS AND CONQUER- NATURAL HISTORY STORIES. 


ORS. 3 vols. nmo, $3-°°- 

Cortes. Pizarro. Columbus. 

FAMOUS AMERICANS, SECOND 
SERIES. 5 vols. 121110, $6.25. 

Henry Wilson. By Elias Nason. 

Bayard Taylor. By Russell H. Conwell. 


By Mrs. A. E. C. Anderson-Maskell. 

Bds. 3 vols. Q. $2.25. 

Water Wonders. On Four Feet. 

Winged Wonders. 

PRIZE ($ 1 , 000 .) SERIES. 16 vols. 

i2mo, $24.50. 


George Peabody. By P here A. Hanafokd. Story of the Blount Family. Silent Tom. 

Abraham Lincoln. By Phebe A. Hanafokd. Striking for the RighL Waller Macdonald. 

Horace Greeley. By William L. Cornell. Ralph’s Possession. Evening Rest. 

ILLUSTRATED WUNDERS. 5 vol- The Wadsworth Boys. Luck of Alden Farm, 

umes, i6mo, $8.00. The Old Stone House. Coming to the Light. 


Wonders in Insect Life. Curiosities of Heat 
Home and Abroad. Black Diamonds. 

Great Wonders In Little Things. 

MISS C. M. YONGE’S HISTORI- 
CAL STORIES. 4 vols. i2ino, $5.00. 
The Little Duke. Lances of Lynwood. 

Golden Deeds. The Prince and Page. 

EASTMAN’S (Julia A.) BOOKS. 6 
vols. iamo, $ 7 - 5°- 

Striking for the Right. Young Rick. 


Chroniclesof Sunset Mountain. 

Glimpses Through. 

Grace Avery’s Influence. The Marble Preacher. 
Margaret Worthington. Golden Lines. 

PRIZE ( Original $500) SERIES. 8 vols. 
12 mo. 

Andy LuttrelL 
Aunt Mattie. 

Sabrina Hackett. 

Light from the Cross. 


$ 12 . 00 . 

Master and PupiL 
Shining Hours. 

May BelL 
Contradictions. 


Short Comings and Long Goings. 

The Romney’s of Ridgemont. Kitty KenL PBIZE (New $500) SERIES. 13 vols. 

School Days of Beulah Romney. nmo, $16.75. 

FARMAN’S (Ella) BOOKS. 9 vols. Short Comings and Long Goings. Trifles. 

Large i6mo, $10.00. Building Stones. Tire Judge’s Sons. 

Anna Maylie. Grandma Crosby’s Household. Hester’s Happy Summer. Daisy Seymour. 

Little Woman. Good-for-Nothing Polly. The Flower by the Prison. Lute Falconer. 

A White Hand. How Two Girls Tried Farming. The Trapper’s Niece. Susy’s Spectacles. 

A Girl’s Money. Mrs. Hurd’s Niece. Olive Loring's Mission. Torch Bearers. 

Cooking Club of Tu-Whit Hollow. One Year of my Life. 

LOTHROP’S LIBRARY OF EN- SPARE MINUTE SERIES. Edited by 
TERTAINING HISTORY. Edited 
by Arthur Gilman, M.A. 4 vols. umo, $6. 

India. By Fannie Rofer Feudge. 

Egypt. By Mrs. Clara Erskine Clement. 

Spain. By Prof. James H. Harrison. 

Switzerland. By Harriet D. S. Mackenzie. 

LIBRARY OF FAMOUS AMER- 
ICANS. 5 vols. i2mo, $6.25. 

Charles Sumner. Daniel Webster. 

Benjamin Franklin. Israel Putnam. 

Amos Lawrence. 


E. E. Brown. 4 vols. i2ino, $4.00. 

Thoughts that Breathe. From Dean Stanley. 
Cheerful Words. From George MacDonald. 
The Might of Right. From W. E. Gladstone. 
True Manliness. From Thomas Hughes. 

YOUNG FOLKS’ HISTORIES. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge. 6 voE. i2mo, $9.00 
half-Russia, $12.00 

Germany. Greece Rome. 

England. Bible History. France. 



D. Lothrop 6 ° Co., Publishers , 32 Franklin Street , Boston , Mass. 


IE¥ BOOKS 


1.25 
i2mo, 

1.25 

J2mo, cloth, plain, 

2.25 
1.50 
1.50 


Cherry-Blooms of Yeddo. By Clara M. Arthur. Small quarto, 
handsomely illustrated, cloth, 1.25; full gilt. j^ 0 

Class of '70 (The). By Helena V. Morrison. i2mo, cloth. 1.25 

Fifty Years with, the Sabbath-schooL By Rev. Asa Bullard, 
D. D. i2mo, cloth. 2.25 

For Mack’s Sake. By S. J. Burke. i2mo, illustrated. 1.25 

Half Year at Bronckton. By Margaret Sidney. i2mo, illust. 1.25 
Hall in the Grove (The). By Pansy. i2mo, cloth, 1.50 

Home and School. All illustrated children's song hook. By Louis C. 

Elson. Quarto, cloth. I OO 

Honor Bright (the story of). By Magnus Merriweather, author of 
Royal Lowrie. i2mo, illust. I 2 ^ 

Illustrated Science for Boys and Girls. T2mo, cloth, illust. 1.00 

Lances of Lynwood. A story of the Days of Chivalry in England. By 
Miss Charlotte M. Yonge. i2mo, cloth, illust. 

Little Duke (The) : Richard the Fearless. By Miss C. M. Yonge. 
illustrated. 

Life of James A. Garfield. By E. E. Brown 
steel portrait and illustrations, 175; gilt. 

Old and Hew Friends. By Marie Oliver. i2mo, illustrated. 

Our Street. By Mrs. S. R. Graham Clark. i2ino, cloth, illust. 

Over Seas ; or. Here, There, and Everywhere. By Popular Authors. 

i2mo, clo>th, fully illustrated. I OO 

Polly’s Scheme. By Corydon. r6mo, doth. IOO 

Prince and the Page (The). By Miss C. M. Yonge. 12010, illust. 1.25 
Pushing Ahead; or, big Brother Dave. By Edward A. Rand. i2mo, 
illustrated. • 12 

Boy’s Dory at the Sea-shore. By Edward A. Rand. A sequel to 
“Pushing Ahead . 1 ** i2mo, cloth, illustrated. I<2 ^ 

Songs of Sunshine and Shadow. Poems by Maude Moore. Square 
i6mo, cloth, 1.25 ; cloth, gilt. x 

Tent in the Hotch (The). By Edward A. Rand. i6mo, extra cloth, 

1.00 

To-days and Yesterdays. By Carrie Adelaide Cook. i2mo. 1.25 
Two Young Homesteaders. By Mrs. Theodora R. Jenness. 36 

1 21110. 


illustrations by Robert Lewis. 

The Temple Kebuilt By Frederic R. Abbe. 

the dignity and destiny of the soul. i 6 mo, cloth. 

Uncle Mark’s Amaranths, By Annie G. Hale. 

life told with great sweetness. i2mo, illust. 

Yensie Walton’s Womanhood By Mrs. S. R. Graham Clarke. 
i2mo, cloth. j 


1. 5 0 

An epic concerning 
1.25 

A story of humble 

1.50 


D. Lotlirop Co., I'ublishers , 32 Franklin Street , Boston , -Mm. 


TRAVEL. 

African Adventure and Adventurers. Edited by Rev. G. T. Day, 
D. D. i2mo, illust. % I, 5 ° 

An epitome of the elaborate works of Bruce, Speke and Grant, Baker and 
Livingstone. 

All Aboard for Sunrise Lands. By Edward A. Rand. Chromo 
board cover, 1.75. Extra cloth binding. 2.25 

A trip from California across the Pacific to Japan, with adventures in 
Australia, China and the Eastern seas. 

Around the World Tour of Christian Missons By W. F. Bain- 

bridge, i vol. 8vo, cloth, 600 pages, with maps of prevailing religions 
and all leading mission stations, 2 -°°. 

An undenominational work, covering a vast territory, and includes personal in. 
terviews with perhaps a thousand missionaries. 

Amy and Marion’s Voyage Around the World. By Sarah B. 

Adams. i2mo, with illustrations from original photographs. 1 . 25 

Captive in Patagonia (The); or, Life among the Giants. A personal 

narrative. By Benjamin Bourne. i2mo, illust. 1.25 

Family Plight (A), through France, Germany, Norway and Switzerland. 

By Rev E E Hale and Miss Susan Hale. Octavo, extra cloth, tinted 

edges. 2 ' 5 ° 

Island Home (The); or, the Young Castaways. By Christopher 

Romaunt. i2mo, illustrated. I * 5 ° 

On Board the Rocket. By Captain Robert C. Adams, iamo, illust., 

1 co- Holiday edition, illustrated, with cover in eight colors and silver. 

’ 1 .00 

Quarto. 

Our Travelling Party; or, the Percy Family Abroad. By Daniel C. 

Eddy. 5 vols., i6mo, illustrated. 5 *°° 

Round the World Letters. By Lucy S. Bainbridge. i vol. 8vo, 

cloth, illustrated, I, 5 ° 

The letters are so sprightly and vivacious, the scenes are so graphically 
portrayed, the character portraits are so vigorously outlined, and the informa- 
tion is so tangible, that the reader seems for a time to be transported to 
foreign shores, and stores of information, seldom accessible from so reliable a 
source, are developed. 

Sunny Skies; or, adventures in Italy. By Barbara H. Channing. 

i6mo, six full-page illustrations. I,2 5 

Under the Mizzen Mast. By Rev. Nehemiah Adams, D. D. i2mo, 

, 1.00 

illustrated. 

Young Americans Abroad ; or, Vacation in Europe. By John Over- 
ton Choulf.3, D.l)., and his Pupils. >2rno, illust. 1,25 


D. Lothrop 6 ° Co., Publishers, 32 Franklin Street, Boston, Mass. 


RELIGIOUS. 

A Lamp to the Path ; or, the Bible in the Heart and the Home. By 
Rev. W. K. Tweedie, D. D. 161110. I>2 ^ 

Bremen Lectures. From the German. By Rev. D. FIeagle. i2mo, 1.50 
Baxter’s Saints’ Rest. i6mo. ’ 12 ^ 

Concession of “ Liberalists ” to Orthodoxy. By Daniel Dor- 
chester, D. D. i6mo. I2 

Daily Manna. By Baron Stow, D. D. New edition, 2 4 mo. .25 

Dictionary of the Bible. By William Smith, LL. D. 8vo, cloth.2.00 
8vo, including History of the Jewish Nation. ’ . 00 

Dr. Nehemiah Adams’ Works. 13 vols. I3 G0 

Gathered Treasures. Arranged and edited by Miss F. E. Willard 
and Miss M. B. Lyman. A scroll in large print, to hang on the wall. 1.00 
Gospel Life of Jesus (The). By D. A. Davis. i6mo. j r 0 

Gethsemane : Meditations on the Last Hours of the Saviour. Translated 

from the German of Charlotte Elizabeth Nebelin. i6mo. r 2 r 

Helpful Thoughts for Young Men. By T. D. Woolsky, D.D., i 2 mo 12 
How to Conduct Prayer-meetings. By Rev. Lewis O.’thompson. 
i2mo. 

Hours of Christian Devotion. By Dr. A. Tholuck i6mo i m 
Memorial Hour (The) ; or, the Lord's Supper in its relation to Doctrine 
and Life. By Jeremiah Chaplin, D. D. i6mo. j 2 - 

Morning and Night Watches. By Rev. J. a. Macduff. i8mo ' 7 l 
Mind and Words of Jesus Rev. T. R. Macduff. iSmo, red edges \\ 
Our Sabbath Evening. By A. A. Hopkins. Meditations in prose and 

verse. Square i6mo. 

Perfect Man (The). By Rev. Harry Jones. 

Pilgrims’ Progress. 4 editions. 750., i.oo 1.2c loo 

Rule and Exercises of Holy Living. By Jeremy Taylor ’ 7 - 

Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying. By Jeremy Taylor 7 \ 

Salvation by Christ. A series of Discourses on some of the most im- 
portant Doctrines of the Gospel. By Francis Wayland, D. D. i r 0 

Search the Scriptures. From the French of C. de Felice. * 1*00 

Seedtime and Harvest. By Rev. W. K. Tweedie, D. D. i6mo 
illust. ’ ’ 

Seven Words from the Cross. By Rev. Wm. H. Adams. !6mo. I'll 
Signet Ring. By Rev. I. De Liefde. i6mo, new edition. x 2c 

Stl11 Hou r ; or, Communion with God. By Prof. Austin Phelps D D 5 
New edition, plain, .60 ; tinted paper, gilt edged. ’ 

Story of the Prayers of Christian History (The). By Hezek^h 
Butterworth. Author of Story of the Hvmns. ismo illust x , 

Work Of the Holy Spirit (The) ; or, the New Birth. By Prof Austin 
Phelps, D. D. i6mo. 7 * Ausi IN 

1.25 


D. Lothrop < 2 >° Co., Publishers , 32 Franklin Street , Boston , Mass. 


BIOGRAPHY. 

Abraham Lincoln: His Life and Public Services. By Thebe A. Hana- 
Ford. i2mo, cloth, illust. 1.25 

Autobiography and Memorials of Ichabod Washburn By Rev. 

Henry T. Cheever. i6mo. 1.00 

Bayard Taylor: His Life, Travels and Literary Career. By Col. Russell 
H. Conwell. i2mo, Steel Portrait and illust. 1.50 

Columbus ; or, The Discovery of America. i2mo, illust. 1 00 

Consecrated Life (A); or, Portraiture of Rev. Edwin Delmont Kelly, 
missionary to Burmah. By His Wife. i2mo. 1.25 

Cortes; or, the Discovery and Conquest of Mexico. i2mo, illust. 1.00 
Dr Grant and the Mountain Nestorians. By Rev. Thomas Laurie. 

With a map of the country, and numerous illustrations. i2mo. 1.50 

George Peabody; By Phebe A. Hanaford. i2mo, cloth, illust. 1.50 
Good Fight (A) ; or. George D. B'oardman and the Burman Mission. By 
Rev. A. King. Introduction by W. R. Williams, D. D. i2mo. 1.25 

Guttenburg ; or, the Art of Printing. By E. C. Pearson. i2mo, cloth, il. 1.25 
Henry Wilson : his Life and Public Service. By Rev. Elias Nason. 

1 2mo, cloth, Steel Portrait and illust. 1.50 

Horace Greeley: his Life and Editorial Success. By William L. 

Connell, D. D. iamo, Steel Portrait and illust. 1.25 

Israel Putnam By I. N. Tarbox. Maps and illustrations. i2mo, 1.50 
Life of Charles Sumner By J. and J. D. Chaplin. i2mo, five hundred 
and four pages, finely illustrated. 1.50 

Life of Benjamin Franklin. By Rev. J. Chaplin. i2mo, illust. 1.50 
Life and Writings of Charles Dickens (The). By Phebe A. Hana- 
ford. i2mo, illust. 1.50 

Life of Amos Lawrence By W. R. Lawrence. New edition. i2mo, 
illust. 1-5° 

Life of Daniel Webster. By J. Banvard, D. D. New edition, i2mo, 
illust. i- 5 ° 

Mary and I; or, Forty Years with the Sioux. By Stephen R. Riggs. 

i2mo. i- 5 ° 

Men of Mark ; or, Heroes of English Church History. By Wm. Marsh- 
all, D. D. 1 2 mo. 1.25 

Our American Artists. First Series. By S. G. W. Benjamin. Illust. 

Plain, 1.50. Gilt. 2.00. 

Our American Artists Second Series. 40 illust., cloth, 1.50. Gilt, 2.00 
Pizarro ; or, the Conquest of Peru. i2mo, illust. 1.00 

Poets’ Homes. First Series. Prepared by R. IT. Stoddard and 
others. Quarto, 2.00. Gilt edges. 2.50 

Poets’ Homes Second Series. Perpared by Arthur Gilman and others. 
Quarto, plain, 2.00. Gilt edges. 2.50 



D. Lothrop 6 ° Co., Publishers, 32 Franklin Street, Boston, Mass. 


HISTORICAL. 

Egypt. By Clara Erskine Clement i2mo, cloth, one hundred 
illustrations, 1.50. Half Russia. 2.00 

First Explorers of North America. By J. Banvard, D. D. il., 1.50 
History of the Jewish Nation. By E. E. Palmer. 8vo, il. 1.25 
History of England in Rhyme. By R. C. Adams. Sq., i6mo, .40 
History of Christianity. By John S. C. Abbott. i2mo, il. 2.00 
India. By Fannie Roper Feudge. i2mo, cloth, 630 pp., one hundred 
full page illustrations. x.^o 

Kings, Queens and Barbarians. By Arthur Gilman. i6mo, il. 1.00 
Knights and Sea Kings ; or, the Middle Ages. Edited by S. F. Smith, 
D. D. i2mo, illust. x 

Myths and Heroes ; or, the Childhood of the World. Edited by Rev. S. 

F. Smith, D. D. i2mo, illust. x >5 o 

Pioneers of the New World. By J. Banvard, D. D. i 2 mo. 1.25 
Plymouth and the Pilgrims. By J. Banvard, D. D. i2mo, illust. 1.25 
Soldiers and Patriots of the Revolution. By Joseph Banvard, 
D. D. i2mo, illust. I>2 ^ 

Southern Explorers and Colonists. By J. Banvard, D. D. umo, il. 1.25 
Spain. By Prof. James Albert Harrison, of Washington and Lee Uni- 
versity. 100 illustrations. i2mo, cloth, 1.50. Half Russia. 2.00 

Switzerland. By Harriet D. S. Mackenzie. i2mo, 100 illustrations. 1.50 
Half Russia. 2QQ 

William the Silent, and the Netherland War. By Mary Barrett. 

With maps and engravings. i2mo, illust. j 

Young Folks’ History of Rome. By Charlotte M. Yonge. iamo, 
fully illustrated, 1.50. Half Russia. 2 ^ 

Young Folks’ History of France. By Charlotte M. Yonge. i 2 mo, 
fully illustrated, 1.50. Half Russia. 2>0 o 

Young Folks’ History of America, Edited by Hezekiah Butter- 
worth, i2mo, 535 pp., 153 illustrations, cloth, 1.50. Half Russia. 2.00 
Young Folks’ History of Germany. By Charlotte M. Yonge. 

Maps and 81 illustrations. i2mo, 1.53. Half Russia. 2 O0 

Young Folks’ Bible History. By Charlotte M. Yonge. i 2 mo, one 
hundred and thirty-two illustrations, 1.50. Half Russia. * 2>GO 

Young Folks’ History of Russia. By Nathan Haskell Dole 
1 vol. i2mo, cloth, fully illustrated, 1.50. Half Russia. 2.00 

Young Folks History of Boston. ByH. Butterworth. Illust. 1.0 

Half Russia. ’* 0 

Young Folks’ History of England. By Charlotte M. Yonge 
i2mo, 1.50. Half Russia. , 2 

Young Folks’ History of Greece. By Charlotte M. Yonge. i2mo 
illust., 1.50. Half Russia. ,, ’ 












